Wraith
by Uvatha the Horseman
Summary: How the Witch King of Angmar entered Sauron's service
1. Chapter 1 - The First Use of Magic

A great bank of clouds towered in the West, their edges yellow-gold in the late afternoon sun.

From the height of the aft deck, Er-Mûrazôr scanned the endless line where the sea met the sky. A swell rolled beneath the ship and lifted it high in the air. There it was, a roughness on the horizon, barely noticeable but definitely there. He stepped up on the stern rail for a better look, holding the backstay for balance. Tolan, the old helmsman shot him a warning look. _Have a care, young princeling._

Above the irregular spot, the undersides of the clouds were tinged with green. Every sailor knows that clouds over land are green, they reflect the color of the fields and forests beneath them.

The swell rolled on, and the ship dropped into the trough between waves. The prow dipped below the water, dunking the lavender and rosemary tied to the bowsprit, an offering to Ossë.

When the ship rose on the next swell, he saw it again. It could be a triangle of sail, but more likely it was Tol Eressëa, the westernmost outpost of the undying lands. He would hold this course just long enough to get a better look.

He glanced over his shoulder in the direction of home. A small bump, the peak of the highest mountain on Númenor, interrupted the otherwise unbroken horizon. The cities hugging the coast had long since disappeared beneath the sea, visually speaking, but as long as he could see any part of Númenor, at least intermittently, he considered himself not in violation of the Ban.

They continued sailing West. When they slipped into the troughs, he lost sight of the tip of the mountain. He sent Wynn, the lookout, into the rigging to keep an eye on it.

"I can't … oh wait, I can still see it," the slender boy called from his perch just below the tip of the mainmast. Their pennant, a tree with seven stars, snapped in the breeze above his head.

His interpretation of the Ban was more flexible than most, and every time he sailed West, he pushed the limits a little harder.

Someday, he would see the undying lands with his own eyes. If the sages were right, it would add years to his natural life. Not by as many as if he lived there, but every added year was precious.

A wall of squalls was moving in from the north. The ugly clouds danced with lightning, and a low rumble reached him from across the waves. If the squalls continued on their current course and speed, his view of the peak would be cut off behind diagonal curtains of rain.

Er-Mûrazôr took a last look to the West, at the billowing white clouds reflecting green underneath, which might be the only look he would ever have of the undying lands. Reluctantly, he gave the order to turn around.

"Jibe ho." The stern swung around, and the sails filled with wind.

The course back to Númenor led them directly into the path of the squall. If they were lucky, they'd outrun it, but if it caught them, they'd be in no real danger. They'd shorten sail, drop the sea anchor, and wait out the storm below decks. There was nothing to run into out here. They were sailing through blue water, unimaginably deep, with no rocks or shoals.

The great mass of cloud lit up from within, revealing the enormous height of the waves. The water was pockmarked from rain, and wisps of spume raced across its surface.

The wind freshened. The deck tipped until it dipped into the water, and the sea hissed along the gunwales. The sky turned black. When the rain hit, it was stinging hard and cold as ice, startling compared to the warm water sloshing over his feet.

A gust blew out one of the sails, leaving ribbons of canvas flapping in the gale. The bow drifted off the line of swells, and a wave broke over the bow.

"Helmsman, I relieve you." The exhausted man shot him a look of gratitude, and Er-Mûrazôr took over the tiller.

"Shorten sail." His words were torn away by the shriek of the wind, even he couldn't hear them. He put his fingers in his mouth and blew ear-splitting blasts, two short and one long. A sailor at the bow nodded, and took down the larger of the two remaining jibs. There was almost no canvas left to take in. They were flying a jib the size of a snot rag, and nothing else.

Hours past dark, and the squall showed no signs of letting up. The stars were hidden behind the clouds. Without them, Er-Mûrazôr lost his bearings. It didn't matter, in a storm like this, he had to abandon his course and steer directly into the waves.

The bow of the ship lifted on the next crest, and the hull slid down the side of a mountain of a wave. They landed wrong, and the keel shivered as if it would snap. Er-Mûrazôr gripped the rail and struggled to keep his footing on the slippery deck. He stood upright, his face still. It wouldn't do for the men see him afraid.

A bolt of lightning struck, too close, and the crack of thunder came at almost the same moment. The lookout on the prow turned around, gesturing wildly and pointing to something off the port quarter. Er-Mûrazôr saw his lips move but couldn't hear anything above the shriek of the storm and the ringing in his ears.

He looked where the man was pointing. The light from the next strike revealed a line of breakers, the boiling foam pale against the black water. Rocks, where there should be only blue water, of unplumbed depths.

He threw his whole weight against the tiller. "Ready about!" The jib swung from one side to the other, and the ship began to turn. The waves hit them abeam, driving the ship closer to the rocks. He cringed at the drawn-out scraping of wood against stone.

"Ossë, spare us and I will raise a temple to you."

Assuming Ossë wanted another temple. Númenor was a seafaring nation. It was lousy with roadside shrines and temples to Ossë, probably one for every person on the island.

He ordered the mainsail raised, and the canvas filled with a snap. The deadly breakers passed alongside them, and soon, they left the fangs of rocks in their wake. Er-Mûrazôr put a hand to his chest and held it there until his pulse dropped to normal.

Sometime past midnight, when the storm had died down to a heavy rain, he told Sevrann, his first officer, "Set a double watch. We'll update the charts as soon as it's light."

He went below into the low-ceilinged cabin, barely large enough for the six bunks shared by a twelve-man crew, and flung himself onto the nearest one fully clothed, too tired to care that he was dripping onto the sheets. When he closed his eyes, he felt like he was falling. He clutched the edges of the pallet for support.

There was shouting on deck, and the sound of running feet. Someone screamed. He struggled from deepest sleep, as if swimming toward the surface from a great depth.

"Hard a lee," ordered the first officer. The ship wallowed through its turn, and canvas flapped.

A blow struck the vessel. It flung him from his bunk and resonated through the hull like a drumbeat. He was on his feet in an instant, but the next blow knocked him to the floor. Pain shot from his wrist to his elbow.

The ship was lifted and dropped, lifted and dropped, and each time, the vessel rolled further onto its side. There was the scrape of wood against rock, and the sound of timbers splintering. The blows sounded flat and dull, as if they came from a drum with a split skin. At that moment, he knew the hull had been breached.

He crawled through seawater a foot deep and reached the hatch. The deck was canted at an unnatural angle, but he could keep his footing by hanging onto the roof of the cabin.

"Captain, there was another rock." His first officer looked terrified, either of being shipwrecked or of his own Captain. Er-Mûrazôr couldn't tell.

The ship rolled in the surf and seemed to twist, and the timbers groaned like whales. The ship started to break apart.

"Abandon ship," he said. The order no captain ever wants to give.

The hull had been driven so high up on the rocks, they could step from the deck and wade through the foaming surf.

Judging from the height above which no mussels or barnacles clung, the rock would keep them above water at high tide. However, no plants grew here, and as far as he could tell, there was no water.

He stood among the rocks, breathing hard and staring out to sea.

No one knows where we are.

It was his own fault. Er-Mûrazôr hadn't told anyone he was planning to sail so close to the undying lands.

If his brother Atanamir failed to return on time, they'd search for him right away. Unlike Er-Mûrazôr, Atanamir did what he was told. But if Er-Mûrazôr were late, his father would assume he'd gone off exploring, and wouldn't worry.

Some captains always kept a silver mirror used for signaling on their person at all times against this very possibility. He felt for the cord around his neck, at the same moment he remembered when he'd taken it off and where he'd put it. Ossë's stiff cock! They might be here for a long time.

But there was no time to brood. The more food and water they could recover from the disintegrating ship, the longer they could hold out. The men made trip after trip over the razor-sharp rocks, moving the wounded, carrying water kegs, and bringing out whatever tools and equipment they could carry, taking care not to fall in the darkness and the swirling water.

Some of the men refused to go below decks, now in pitch darkness and tilted at an unfamiliar angle. Er-Mûrazôr could have ordered them below, they needed to retrieve the kegs of water in the hold, but there was only so much he could ask of the terrified men, so he did it himself.

After that, Er-Mûrazôr carried armloads of wet canvas from the wreck until his limbs trembled from exertion. His left arm was almost unusable. He could grip with his hand, but it hurt to lift any weight.

The hull rocked in the waves. It could crush a hand or foot is a sailor was unlucky. Timbers cracked. Something snapped, and the mainmast came down. Hempen ropes trailed in its wake. However badly they needed supplies, it was no longer safe to collect them.

"All ashore. We've done enough for tonight."

He went to the makeshift tent where they were treating the wounded, jury-rigged from a sail draped over a spar across two boulders. He lifted the edge of the canvas and crawled beneath it. There was enough sand between the rocks to lay a man on, but it was soaking wet.

Tolan, the old helmsman knelt over a still form. "It's Sevrann, Captain. He's bad hurt."

The fabric of his legging had been cut away to above the knee, and pieces of wood were bound the length of his shin with strips of cloth. Er-Mûrazôr hoped the bone splinters hadn't pierced the skin. If they had, it would be a death sentence.

Er-Mûrazôr knelt beside the wounded man and asked, "How's the leg?" His first officer bit his lip and grimaced. He turned to the helmsman. "Was there any wine among the water barrels we managed to save? Give it to him." He couldn't do anything more for the man.

Outside, he stood in the rain, the cold water running in rivulets down the side of his face, down his neck. This was his fault. He looked around to be sure he was unobserved, then fell to his knees and punched the sand over and over. Remorse hit him like a punch in the gut, and he couldn't seem to catch his breath.

Recovering his composure, he joined the others and counted those who remained. Two were in the tent and the rest were salvaging things from the ship. That made ten. No, eleven, he'd forgotten to count himself. They had been a crew of twelve. Wynn, the lookout, was missing. Er-Mûrazôr punched the sand again.

The rain was still coming down, icy cold. It didn't rain often in this part of the world. He tasked two sailors with catching rainwater in a square of canvas, and told another to find a cask or pot, anything that would hold water.

Sometime in the small hours, the moon began to show through broken clouds. The rain had stopped, but mist continued to soak his hair and clothing. Er-Mûrazôr sat in the sand with his knees pulled up to his chin, his thoughts swirling.

The helmsman came over and sat beside him. "Sevrann's sleeping now." Er-Mûrazôr nodded. "And now for you. That's blood on your leg. Do you want me to patch you up?"

Er-Mûrazôr looked down. A dark stain spread across the outside of his thigh. He touched it, and his hand came away sticky. Something protruded from the fabric. He tugged, and eased out a splinter the size of a writing pen. It must have been four or five inches deep, just under the skin. Ugly, but not serious.

The helmsman tore a strip of linen from the tail of his shirt and passed it over. Er-Mûrazôr knotted the ends, then dropped it over his head. With the weight of his arm supported by the loop of fabric, the sudden stabbing gave way to a dull ache. Much better.

"Thanks," he said, and he meant it.

Nearby, two men bent over the collection of driftwood and broken timber, striking a stone against the blade of a knife over and over. Every once in a while, a spark landed in the shavings cupped in the second man's hands. Once, it glowed for a moment under his breath, but it didn't catch.

It would be better to have a signal fire at night, it could be seen for much further away. He wouldn't want to lure a ship up onto the rocks, but experienced mariners would know not to approach until daylight.

Er-Mûrazôr looked from one face to another. "Did anyone rescue the tinderbox?" The men looked at each other. In the dark, with the waves threatening to drag them over rocks as sharp as knives, while thinking of more important things, like rescuing the drinking water. "It must have been lost with the ship."

Once, Er-Mûrazôr had seen one of the court astrologers light a candle with his will alone. It took a long time, and seemed to take a lot of effort, but finally there was a curl of smoke, and a yellow flame leapt up from the wick.

Er-Mûrazôr had assumed it was a street conjurer's trick, something with flammable oils and a rough surface to his fingertips, but the man didn't seem the type. He was a serious scholar, and not one to draw attention to himself.

"How did you do that"? the young prince had asked him.

"Keep your mind still, and focus the whole of your attention upon the wick. Be patient, and expect to have to work at it."

Er-Mûrazôr had tried a couple of times. He'd stared for what seemed like long minutes, and had punched the wall when nothing happened. But once, just once, he managed to produce the smallest wisp of smoke. When he touched the wick, it was warm.

Er-Mûrazôr knelt beside the makeshift fire circle. "Let me try."

The sailors had arranged a bundle of driftwood twigs into a miniature tent, and put shaved curls of wood under it.

Er-Mûrazôr knelt in the wet sand by the edge of the fire ring and sat back on his heels. He rested his hands on his thighs, to the extent the sling would allow it. His left wrist was twice the size it should be, the wrist bone and tendons had disappeared under puffy flesh.

"Give me some room." The sailors withdrew by two or three paces, but he still felt crowded. Maybe the secret to magic is getting past the fear of looking stupid.

Er-Mûrazôr focused on the shavings. He drew a breath, held it, let it go. The stones on the shingle beach clattered as the waves lifted them and then drained back. His wrist hurt. He ignored it. The ankle he was sitting on started to go numb, and he shifted his weight. Focus. He closed his eyes. Breath in, breath out.

The swell of the ocean all around him was like a living thing. The power of it seemed to fill him. Breath in, breathe out. Send with it all the power from the surf, from the ocean, the storm.

It took what seemed like hours, but finally, a curl of smoke rose from the shaving. A spark glowed orange, and the tangle of shavings burst into flame, which ignited the tip of a driftwood twig. Soon the whole structure was burning, the wet wood popping in the heat. Er-Mûrazôr hung his head, exhausted.

"How did you do that?" The sailor's voice was awe-stricken.

"He's a sorcerer, that's how. Don't ask stupid questions," said his shipmate.

Er-Mûrazôr was as amazed as the sailors. Was he a sorcerer? Or, as the court astrologer had said, did you just need to be patient and work extremely hard?

The men fed timbers from the ship into the blaze. Someone slapped him on the back. The flame shot up four or five feet high, burning hotter than a natural fire, the soaked wood popping and hissing with steam.

Er-Mûrazôr unfolded himself from the sand and brushed off his knees. "Get some rope and an oar."

They wrapped the rope around the blade of the oar and wedged it between two rocks, a fiery beacon high in the air. It was impossible to tell if anyone was out there, all they could do was wait.

All night they fed the fire, keeping it alive in the drizzle and damp. Even standing on his feet, Er-Mûrazôr's head kept falling forward and snapping him awake.

The day dawned under a cloudless sky with glassy calm seas. What was left of the ship were strewn up and down the shore. Debris floated on the water.

"Captain! There's a ship on the horizon. We need to fashion a smoke signal, right quick."

There were no plants on the rock, and everything from the ship: timber, fabric, or rope, was soaking wet.

"Bring some more tarred rope," Er-Mûrazôr told the nearest sailor.

A sailor came back with a coil of rope over one shoulder and dumped it into the fire. Resinous smoke billowed from the twisted hemp, forcing Er-Mûrazôr back, his eyes burning.

An oily black column rose hundreds of feet in the air, as thick as the trunk of a tree. On the horizon, the ship tacked, and tacked again, the white triangle of sail growing larger as it drew near.

A pennant floated from the top of the mainmast, unreadable against the sun. The rock on which they were marooned was to the west of Númenor, far from the normal trading routes. Reputable vessels didn't come this way.

"Captain, what if they're pirates?" The young sailor's face turned pale.

Er-Mûrazôr kept his face still. _Worse than that, what if they're slavers?_

He lifted the sling over his head and let it drop to the ground. The newcomers needn't know he was injured. He stepped to the edge of the surf, motioning his men to stay back. His good hand tightened around the hilt of his dagger.

The vessel completed another tack, bringing it closer. Its lines were slender and graceful. Men had no trading routes west of Númenor, but the Teleri, famous mariners who sailed between the mainland and Tol Eressëa, passed this way all the time. Er-Mûrazôr chewed his lip, waiting.

The breeze freshened and lifted the pennant, revealing a blue background arrayed with a host of stars. Er-Mûrazôr's knees almost buckled with relief.

"Captain, it's an Elvish ship," said Tolan.


	2. Chapter 12 - A Spy Revealed

Er-Mûrazôr stood in front of the makeshift table that served as a desk. Every part of its surface was buried under ledger books, reports from the frontier, and scraps of paper on which he'd added long columns of numbers.

Ships sailed on the tide, and the Royal barge was due to leave this afternoon. Finished or not, his report to the palace would be on it. Er-Mûrazôr skimmed the dozen pages. It wasn't perfect, but it would have to do.

"How long until the tide turns?" his private secretary was beginning to look anxious.

"Within the hour. But I only have to sign it and attach the seal."

He bent and signed his name and titles, then folded the sheets into quarters and tied the bundle with red tape. Halwn melted the wax. Halwn tipped the ladle over the knot, and Er-Mûrazôr imprinted the crest of the Royal House of Númenor into the cooling wax.

He had fifteen minutes to spare and one more thing to do

"I'll take it down the Royal barge myself. We're done for the day, you can go home."

The little secretary beamed, then gathered up his pens and scurried across the square. When he'd gone, Er-Mûrazôr sat down at the table and dipped a quill into ink and began a second letter to the King.

 _Dearest Father,_

 _I wish you were here to see how the walls of the city have risen from the bare rock, as white as sand and at least two stories tall._

 _From Umbar, the whole of the mainland is open before us, unimaginably vast. It's so different here than it is at home. During the day, the breeze is fresh and cold, but at night it comes from the desert and carries the scent of roses and mint._

He wrote more, nothing important, just small news about the farmers' market that morning, and that the blacksmith had started making things for the fishermen. Nothing exciting, just details of day to day life. When he finished, he folded it into a square and sealed it with his signet ring.

He stacked the letter on top of the official dispatch and headed down to the harbor. It was a fairly substantial hike, but faster going down than coming up. Even so, when the path ended at the quay, his calves were burning.

The harbor smelled of salt and sea air. He could tell high tide just by the aroma, the mud flats were underwater right now, and so were the dead fish.

A slim, fast boat of the sort used for smuggling, or possibly to outrun pirates, was moored almost directly in front of him. The deck was higher above the quay than a man is tall. Only the heads and shoulders of the men showed above the rail, but they appeared to be stowing gear as if when the ship were preparing to sail.

The Royal barge was tied up a little further along the quay. Crewmen waited by the pilings where mooring ropes as thick as a man's wrist held the great vessel in place. A wide gangplank led up to the barge, dragging back and forth as the barge lifted and dropped.

Waves slapped against the side of the quay. Er-Mûrazôr mounted the steeply-inclined ramp, then stepped onto the deck and summoned the ship's captain.

"I have an official dispatch for the King." He gave the dispatch to the Captain.

"Is that everything?" the captain asked.

Er-Mûrazôr almost gave him the letter, but hesitated. The Royal barge would reach Armenelos in three days. If he sent it by the smuggling ship instead, it could be at the Palace by late tomorrow afternoon.

"No, that's it." He put the letter away.

He left the Royal barge and went to the smugglers' ship. Men moved around the deck, preparing to sail.

He cupped his hands to his mouth. "You there. I would speak to you captain." One of them looked at him with mild interest, then returned to what he was doing. "I am Er-Mûrazôr, Captain of the Haven. I would speak to your captain."

Every one of them froze. "My noble lord, our captain will attend you right away." Er-Mûrazôr had spent more time at sea than on land. He didn't need help climbing the rope netting that hung over the side, but he accepted the hand that was offered.

A crewman pointed down the companionway. "Our captain is below." Between decks, the space was cramped and low-ceilinged, dark and suffocatingly hot. His eyes adjusted. At a crude table sat a wiry man of middle years with a thatch of iron grey hair.

"I'd like you to deliver a letter to the Palace at Armenelos." The captain waited. "There's a silver penny in it for you, and another on delivery."

Footsteps clattered down the rungs of the companionway. The captain looked up. Er-Mûrazôr turned around, and there was Halwn. balanced on the lowest step with something in his hand.

"Oh hullo, Halwn. The usual arrangement?" asked the captain.

Halwn's face froze. He turned away, so that Er-Mûrazôr couldn't see what he was holding.

Er-Mûrazôr grinned. "What's that, a letter for your sweetheart?" He really shouldn't tease the little clerk, Halwn was a family man with a new baby at home, and that his only sweetheart was his wife.

"Well, let's have it, then." The captain held out his hand.

Halwn went white. His eyes darted back and forth from the captain to Er-Mûrazôr. Very slowly, he handed over a packet of papers sealed with red wax, indistinguishable from official dispatches sent to the palace.

"What is that? Give it to me." Er-Mûrazôr ordered the captain.

Halwn's eyes were fixed on the captain. He moved his head almost imperceptibly, the tiniest shake "no". Er-Mûrazôr stepped forwards and snatched the package from the captain's hand.

The red wax held the royal seal, but there is no address anywhere on the outer wrappings. Er-Mûrazôr broke the seal. Inside was page after page of Halwn's careful script.

 _The Palace authorized two silver pennies to he spent on soldiers' pay, but he spent three pennies two farthings._

He flipped to another page.

 _The agreement requires any modification to the charter to be considered by the full Council of Captains, but he altered a regulation regarding duty shifts for sentries without first consulting the Council._

"What is this?" The cramped space between decks seem to spin. He sank onto a bench, his head between his hands.

There was the sound of feet pounding up the stairs and across the deck. Er-Mûrazôr dove for the stairs, crossed the deck in a few long strides, then leaped over the side onto the quay.

Halwn was nowhere in sight. Where would he have gone? The Royal barge. If he was in the pay of Er-Mûrazôr's brother, that was his best chance of safety.

A quick search proved the spy wasn't on the Royal barge, and now he had a significance head start.

Er-Mûrazôr looked up the hairpin road towards the walled city, and there he was, rounding the fourth of eighteen hairpin turns. Er-Mûrazôr took after him, his long legs burning up the distance.

He caught up with the little sneak at the twelfth turn. The man was standing with his hands on his knees, panting, unable to run any further.

Er-Mûrazôr couldn't believe the man would betray him. Halwn was his father's private secretary, he and Er-Mûrazôr had always been on good terms.

"Start talking, you worm." Er-Mûrazôr took a step toward him.

He took a shaky step backwards. "Please don't hurt me."

Er-Mûrazôr seized him by the arms. "Who sent you?"

The clerk shook with fear. Er-Mûrazôr struck him.

"Why are you spying on me?"

He dangled the little man backwards over the drop. The man's toes still gripped the white granite, but he was overbalanced. Er-Mûrazôr released the grip on his arms, or if he managed to struggle free, he'd fall to his death.

The man started to cry. "Please, I have a wife and baby."

"It's my brother, isn't it? Why is he spying on me?"

"It's not your brother who sent me, it was your father."

Er-Mûrazôr yanked him back onto the path and shoved him. The man fell to his knees, retching.

"Go down to the harbor. Get on the first boat that will have you. Don't go home to pack, don't tell anyone where you're going. Just leave, or I will kill you."

Halwn scrambled to his feet. The knees of his leggings were shredded, and one knee was streaked with blood. He tore down the path, running and falling and getting up again. Er-Mûrazôr watched until he vanished from sight.

He wouldn't really have killed him, the little secretary hadn't done anything wrong, he'd only acted on orders. But Er-Mûrazôr was so angry, he feared that unless the man was well away from here, Er-Mûrazôr might hurt him.

The corner of the folded document poked his skin. He pulled the packet from his tunic and looked at it again and saw what he'd missed the first time. The greeting addressed the king, not his brother the prince.

Hundreds of feet below, the surface of the harbor had the glassy look it did just as the tide turned. Soon, it would start to boil with the current as it flowed out to sea.

Men alongside the smugglers' vessel flung the last of the mooring lines onboard as they prepared to sail.

Just then, Halwn appeared on the quay, sprinting as if sea demons were after him.

Er-Mûrazôr expected to see him make for the Royal Barge, but instead, he flung himself at the side of the smugglers' vessel, which had just finished casting off, creating a widening gap of open water between it and the quay. There was an enormous splash, then a hand on the rope netting, and then the little clerk climbed up the side of the ship and disappeared from sight.

Halwn was traveling aboard the same vessel as Er-Mûrazôr's letter. Both would arrive at the Palace at the same time, Er-Mûrazôr's cheerful note about the future of the kingdom, and Halwn's damning report about Er-Mûrazôr's failings.


	3. Chapter 13 - A Sail on the Horizon

**A Sail on the Horizon**

"Sail ho!" A voice rang from the tallest watchtower facing the sea.

Er-Mûrazôr, striding across the courtyard on what must be the tenth administrative chore of the morning, paused to look up. More small vessels plied the coastline every day, and they often stopped at the Haven to take on supplies. The new city was well on its way to becoming a busy seaport. He allowed himself a moment of satisfaction.

"There, from the West." The watchman pointed in the direction of Númenor, three days beyond the horizon on a fast ship.

The ship that carried dispatches from Númenor to the Haven was as predictable as the tides, but it wasn't due for another week. This ship must be carrying an urgent message. His throat tightened. He hoped his family was well.

Gravel crunched under his feet as he sprinted for the stones stairs built into the city wall. He reached the top of the wall and strode across the flagstones.

On one side, mudbrick structures leaned against the wall, the peak of their thatched roofs resting against the stone blocks just below his feet. He could've jumped into the vegetable gardens between them without fear of injury. Opposite, the smooth, steeply inclined rock face plunged to a mound of boulders with scrub bushes and the occasional sapling growing between them. He gave it a wide berth.

He shaded his eyes. Far out to sea, purple-blue water sparkled under the dome of a cloudless sky. A mottled area offshore marked an underwater forest of kelp, and the breeze from the ocean carried the scent of salt. The line between sea and sky was indistinct, blurred by the mists that formed in late summer. There might be a white dot on the horizon, but he wasn't sure.

 _This must be about the spy._ Er-Mûrazôr clenched his fists.

The dispatch ship left here a week ago, just enough time to reach Númenor, dump the little weasel on the dock, and return with a letter from his father. Er-Mûrazôr hoped for an apology, but more likely, it would be highly emotional letter note condemning him for attempting to choke his father's most trusted private secretary to death.

"Three sails. A large triangle flanked by two smaller ones," called the watchman.

A blur of white formed on the horizon, breaking apart and re-forming, growing wider as he watched. No amount of squinting resolved it into individual vessels.

"Eight sails, no ten." The silhouette of the watchman stood black against the sky. His arm pointed westward.

The Royal barge. It always traveled with an escort of smaller vessels. His father was coming in person. Er-Mûrazôr's mouth went dry. Their reunion was not going to be pleasant.

The tower rose above the top of the wall like a finger of stone, twice the height of a man. A makeshift ladder balanced against it, the highest rung reaching just below the watchman's platform.

Er-Mûrazôr shrugged off his cloak and sword belt and handed them to the nearest man-at-arms. He gripped the rails, a pair of spars to which the rungs had been lashed with tarred rope. He put a boot on the lowest rung, and it shifted slightly under his weight.

He climbed quickly, careful not to look down, keeping his eyes on his hands as they gripped the rails, and on the stones of the side of the tower. Even so, he was acutely aware of the yawning drop to the boulders below the wall.

He let go of the rails to grasp the lip of the platform, and pulled himself up over the edge. The space was barely large enough for the watchman and himself. He stood carefully, putting a hand on his knee and then straightening. The wind blew stronger up here, flapping his clothes and whipping hair in his face. He wrapped his arms around himself, suddenly cold.

From here, the individual sails stood out clearly. The mainsail of the largest ship was tawny brown, almost golden. An elaborate device had been painted in its center, but at this distance, he couldn't make out the design. He didn't need to. The royal badge had a distinctive shape.

His mind raced. The inlet was long and narrow, hemmed in by cliffs. He commanded a fortified base high above it. If he chose to, he could deny entry to the ships. He shook his head to clear it. _Don't be ridiculous_. He wasn't going to take up arms against his father.

An enormous number of sails emerged from the mist, gaining shape and definition as they drew closer.

The watchman squinted toward the horizon. "Twenty-five vessels."

He felt the color drain from his face. Lightheaded, he sank to his knees. The Númenorian fleet was closing in on the Haven, more than enough to remove him by force.

It didn't make sense. They had no reason to arrest him. He was insubordinate, but he wasn't a traitor. The worst thing he'd done was stand up for himself. It was possible his father was coming to see the near-finished city, and using the visit as an occasion to patch up their quarrel.

 _So why didn't he say he was coming?_


	4. Chapter 14 - Frantic Preparations

**Frantic Preparations**

Twenty-five ships. That was an overwhelming force, an invasion. It was too large to fight off, and even if he could he had no desire to raise a hand against his father. His best option was to act as if the visitors were welcome, and embrace them with open arms.

The ships would be here by late afternoon. He had maybe six hours to make the city presentable and prepare a banquet for their royal visitors. He reached a leg below the lip of the platform and found the top rung of the ladder with a toe. He descended so quickly, the ladder wobbled against the stones.

Striding across the courtyard, Er-Mûrazôr tried to see it through the eyes of a stranger. The buildings were of mudbrick thatched with seagrass. Some of the larger ones had stone chimneys, but most had a smoke hole in the roof. The settlement was orderly and reasonably clean, in the manner of a military camp, but it had no luxuries, no decorations. All the effort had gone into the walls. The dwellings looked like an afterthought, something a child might have build from scrap lumber. Still, he was proud of it, and he wanted it to look good for the visitors.

"Steward! Find half a dozen men to collect the trash and burn it. And sweep the streets to remove all evidence of horses. Fly silk banners from the flagpoles. Take the sail from my own vessel, the one with the Royal device painted on it. Drape it from the walls where it will be seen at sea."

A youth entered the courtyard and hurried toward him. "Sir, my da says to remind you he's coming over this afternoon to buy a piece of land."

Er-Mûrazôr slapped his head. He'd promised to sell the farmer a tract of land, but kept being too busy to complete the sale.

"I'm sorry, it won't happen today. Tell you what, I'll come and look for him when I'm free."

The boy hung his head and turned to go. Er-Mûrazôr caught his arm.

"But since you're here, take a message to the harbor master. Tell him to anchor my vessel in the middle of the harbor to make room at the pier for our royal visitors. No, I don't care where in the harbor, just move it off the pier." Er-Mûrazôr pressed a coin into his hand. The boy ran across the courtyard to the Seaward Gate and disappeared down the path to the waterfront.

The Steward reappeared. He started to say something, but Er-Mûrazôr cut him short.

"Arrange the tables in the Guildhall for a banquet. The High Table needs to be long enough for twelve, and raised on a dais."

"There's no time to build a dais, and the longest table we have holds six on a side," said the Steward.

"Do what you can. Push some small tables together and cover them with sailcloth. No, belay that, sailcloth's too coarsely woven. Use bedsheets. Put candlesticks at either end, and hang a garland where the fabric hangs in front of the table."

He left the Steward shouting orders at the men rearranging tables, and strode towards the market square on the desert side of the settlement, where the cook house was tucked out of sight.

On the short walk, one of the farmers who'd been with the colony longest caught up with him and matched his stride, but before the man could speak, Er-Mûrazôr asked, "Aren't there some children among the farm families? Have them pick wildflowers and braid them into garlands. Hang them over the seaside gate where the visitors will see them. Don't bother about the Desert Gate. And I want the Guildhall decorated too, every lintel, every torch bracket. And if there aren't enough flowers, use greenery. The sea grasses and some sprigs from those little shrubs will do."

The man nodded and hurried off, his question unasked, and left Er-Mûrazôr alone with his thoughts.

The number of ships bearing down on the Haven was enormous, way more than required for a royal visit. His stomach lurched. Well, the squall would hit when it hit. In the meantime, all he could do was shorten sail and secure everything that could be tied down. And as any sailor knows, it was better to have your hands and thoughts occupied than to stand there slack-jawed, watching those black clouds roll in.

He reached the cook house, intent on the next task. The narrow alley smelled like vegetable soup. A well enclosure stood just outside the door. Chickens scratched around its base, making contented chicken noises.

"Where's the cook?" he shouted into the doorway. A giant of a man in a greasy apron came running over with a copper ladle clenched in his hand. "Kill some chickens and slaughter a goat. Belay that, you can't serve goat to people from the Capitol. Besides, we need the goats for milk. Butcher a lamb instead.

"Plan to serve at least five courses, and garnish them to make them look festive. Serve whatever wine we have, don't save it for later. And use all the spices you need to, we can replace them later. You're not making peas porridge for the garrison tonight, you're making dishes to place before the King." The man blanched and nodded.

Beyond the center square, and the market square beyond that, the main road stretched through the settlement to the Desert Gate, and beside it, the lean-to structure they used as a stables. The smell of manure and sweet hay reached him even before he heard their loud breathing and the stomp of their feet.

"Ostler, can you shovel some dirt over the dung heap?"

The dung heap wasn't the worst problem. Behind the barracks, a row of latrines had been built against the wall. He got close, and even though he was used to it, the fumes made him gag.

"Shovel some dirt into the latrines while you're at it."

Although the real problem was the long wall between the front of the barracks on the way to the latrines. Apparently the soldiers couldn't be bothered to take more than a few steps from the door when they got up at night. The whole length of the wall smelled of urine. A few buckets full of water should cure that. He tasked a few soldiers to fetch them.

Passing the chicken coops on the way back, he shouted to the cook, "Can you put the chickens in their coops while our visitors are here? I don't want anyone tripping over them. Bring the dogs indoors too, while you're at it."

He returned to the central square. A string of signal flags, silk streamers in red and green and blue, lay abandoned at the base of the watchtower. There were hours of chores to complete before the guests arrived, and maybe one hour in which to complete them. He felt a sort of lightness as the tasks that weren't going to get done slid off his list.

"Watchman, report," said Er-Mûrazôr.

"Twenty-two vessels are riding the tide up the inlet, three more are about to enter."

"The fleet has left the open ocean and entered the inlet. The tide is carrying them in," called the watchman from the stone tower.

Er-Mûrazôr mounted the steps to the top of the wall. Seven large vessels and eighteen smaller ones were strung the length of the inlet. Most had dropped sail, riding the current as the tide flowed in. Large squares of canvas fell and were gathered up as he watched. Some were using oars, some had deployed longboats, preparing to make landfall.

It was time to go down to the pier. He went back to his own house to put on something appropriate for a formal occasion at court.

The single room of his house had a dirt floor and mudbrick walls, but it was furnished magnificently. The architectural bed with its silk hangings came from Númenor. He summoned Oswin, his clerk who doubled as a servant.

"My father will be sleeping here tonight. Clean up the room as much as you can." Actually, it wasn't bad. He'd been a general in the field. He didn't own much, and he liked order.

Oswin looked at the clutter threating to spill off the table he used as a desk. "What about your papers? Shall I straighten them up, or lock them in a box and hide it somewhere?"

"I don't care. Just make it presentable."

Oswin brought over an iron-bound coffer used to store important papers, and Er-Mûrazôr unlocked it for him. The clerk dumped in official correspondence, ledger books, and and Er-Mûrazôr's personal letters, and returned the box to its accustomed place.

After Oswin left, Er-Mûrazôr lifted the lid of a chest decorated with a painting of a ship. He pushed aside the neatly folded stacks of formerly white linen shirts and plain wool leggings wearing thin at the knees. Near the bottom were what had once been the clothes he wore every day, heavy silks in vivid colors. The trim and embroidery looked as if it had taken a year to finish.

He pulled an oxblood colored robe trimmed in copper from the very bottom of the chest and pulled it over his head, then placed rings on the fingers of each hand and set a circlet on his head. His hands trembled, he clenched his fists to still them.

He gathered his small entourage, which consisted of his steward, the captain of the guard, and half a dozen minor officials, and began the trek down to the pier.

They rounded the first hairpin turn. The inlet was crowded with ships. A few had already entered the harbor.

They reached the waterfront and stood on the pier, waiting. The stiff silk of his formal robes brushed the top of his boots, the two-handled sword at his hip. The afternoon sun was warm, and sweat trickled between the shoulder blades.

A group of children jostled on the dock. Most of them were unusually clean for this time of day, and apparently they'd made wreaths for themselves when they'd picked flowers for the Guildhall.

They perched on their heads in a variety of angles, threatening to slide off.

The farm wife who seemed to be in charge clapped her hands. "All together now. 'On this longest day of the year'."

"We can't sing that, it's a solstice carol," said one of the children.

"Perhaps there's another song you all know? I thought not," said the farm wife.

The children launched into the first stanza of their song, their voices the usual mixture of pure and off-key. Silk pennants snapped overhead, and because the tide was coming in, even the mudflat smells of rotting seaweed and dead fish weren't very noticeable.

He worried about meeting his father. The memory of the man he loved so much was overlaid in his mind by the image of the king who could met out harsh discipline, who could use people and toss them aside.

He stood on the deck, his mind racing. He'd been sent here to build a fortified city. He'd been successful, mostly, but it hadn't been easy. Early on during construction, the Seaward Tower collapsed, taking part of a wall with it. The incident could have cost him his position. Hopefully, his success was enough to offset the early disasters and glitches along the way.

He stood on the pier with his steward and purser, along with Ciaran, captain of the garrison. He counted Ciaran as a close personal friend. In a voice almost too low to be heard, he said to him, "If this ends badly, take care of yourself."

The Royal barge entered the harbor, bearing down on the pier. White spray foamed around the prow. The great mainsail bearing the emblem of the royal house of Númenor billowed to the deck. It drifted closer. Elaborate carvings decorated all the woodwork, and a bunch of rosemary and thyme, an offering to Ossë, was tied to the bowsprit.

The great vessel settled against the pilings, its deck towering above the pier. Sailors threw mooring lines from the deck to the pier, where men caught them and cleated them fast.

Er-Mûrazôr waited, his face expressionless, his hand resting on the hilt of the great two-handed sword. He tried to swallow, but couldn't.

The anchor chain clinked, and he thought of manacles, the rough edges snagging the silk of his robes, the rust staining the fabric. His rooms at the Palace once held a royal hostage, the long-unused bolts still slid home. Would there be an arrest warrant, and charges to be read in front of everyone he knew, or would he just disappear? He squeezed his eyes shut. _Stop it._

Sailors moved around on deck, throwing coils of rope and shouting to each other. With a squeal of hinges, a pair of doors in the mid-deck bulwark swung open.


	5. Chapter 15 - A Tour of the City

**Tour of the City**

Sailors lowered a gangplank to the pier and secured it to the bulwark door. Er-Mûrazôr kept his face still. He looked up, expecting to see his father, but it was his brother who appeared at the top of the ramp. Tar-Atanamir.

Er-Mûrazôr greeted him with an almost imperceptible bow. In return, Atanamir grinned and waved. The lower end slid against the pier as the great ship rocked on the swell. Atanamir navigated the ramp with the agility of a sailor, jumping over the last three steps.

Atanamir clapped both hands on his shoulders, then wrapped him in an embrace. "Tindomul, it's good to see you. How long is it been?"

Twilight, his milk name. No one called him that anymore except his mother. Their mother.

"Since my last visit home, at the winter solstice," w _hen you took over my rooms,_ Er-Mûrazôr said between clenched teeth.

But Atanamir was pleasant and friendly, and he seemed glad to see him. It wasn't what he expected, and it threw him off-balance.

The group, Atanamir and his retinue, followed by Er-Mûrazôr's people, left the pier and climbed the steep path up the side of the promontory, Er-Mûrazôr and Atanamir at the head, their people following.

The trail leveled out at top of the promontory. Just ahead of them, the walls of the city rose from the rock, twice the height of a man. A round tower extended above the walls, a black pillar against the sun. Above it, a silk pennant snapped in the wind.

Behind Atanamir and his retinue, the deep water channel of the Haven reached for the sea. At its tip, more warships than had ever crowded into the harbor before bobbed at anchor. He felt sick.

Er-Mûrazôr turned to address his visitors and his mouth went dry. His future hinged on their opinion of his efforts. If they thought he'd spent too much and accomplished too little, he was finished. He took a deep breath and began to speak.

"When we arrived here three years ago, nothing overlooked the harbor but a bare knob of rock. Now Númenor commands a mighty fortress, a beachhead for our expansion into the mainland." Of all the things he'd done in life, building this fortress was his proudest achievement.

Atanamir's face bore an expression he couldn't read. It looked almost like fear.

One of the visitors pointed to the side of the Tower, frowning. "What's that? It looks like a giant crack,"

Er-Mûrazôr followed his eyes. The sun shone golden against the side of the Tower, made the stair-step gap between the blocks stand out in sharp relief. It also showed where the wall had been crushed when the Tower collapsed on it. The repaired area was paler than the original.

He cringed. The less said about the accident, the better.

A hawk-faced official explained. "I understand this happened because the mortar failed, because Er-Mûrazôr decided to make lime from crushed shells when he could have imported high-quality materials from Númenor."

"Yes, I was trying to be careful with costs," said Er-Mûrazôr.

"And the collapse of the tower cost you how much more? Not counting the lives of the two workmen who were killed."

 _Thank you for helping my case, you toad-eating weasel._

"Let's enter the city itself. I'm sure you'll be impressed." Er-Mûrazôr beckoned the group forward.

The path led through a tunnel through the base of the tower. The gates stood open, each a double thickness of timber bound in iron. Its only feature, beyond the nail heads protecting it from axe blows, was an opening close to the ground.

Atanamir nudged him. "That's the smallest postern I ever saw. What's it for, the cat?"

Er-Mûrazôr smiled, grateful to his brother for changing the subject. "Sometimes fishermen put to sea while the gate is still barred for the night, so this gates are never completely sealed. Now, the desert gate on the far side of the city doesn't have a postern. After it closes for the night, no one enters or leaves."

They had to squeeze together to walk two abreast through the tunnel. They hiked against the slope, their voices echoing with a hollow sound. Atanamir touched the rough stones overhead. Er-Mûrazôr cringed. At home, the ceiling would have been out of reach, and the stones would have been smooth to the touch and fitted seamlessly.

They emerged into bright sunlight. The walls enclosing the city pressed in from all sides. The air was still, and it was warmer than it had been outside.

He led the visitors along a narrow street between tightly-packed houses. They emerged on the Center Square, one of the few open spaces within the walls. It was hemmed in on all sides by small mudbrick buildings. Most had only a single low-ceilinged room, but there were so many of them, grasping at every available bit of space, they looked ready to overwhelm the small courtyard and bury it.

"The city is too small for this many people. You didn't enclose enough area," said someone in Atanamir's revenue.

"That was a deliberate decision. We had to build the walls as quickly as possible, before the local people could regroup and counterattack." Er-Mûrazôr bristled. It had been the right decision, but he wasn't sure he could prove it.

Beyond the square, the insides of the walls showed above the seagrass thatch of the buildings leaning against them. They looked like they'd been built from stones dug from a farmer's fields and stacked in no particular order.

Atanamir seemed to be studying them. His face was neutral, as if he'd been asked to admire a piece of art he didn't care for.

Númenor had an ancient and proud tradition of stonework, the blocks which fit together without a seam, the mirror-like surfaces, the ornamental carving. This wasn't it.

"They don't appear to be finished," said the weasel faced emissary.

Er-Mûrazôr's face burned. "They're finished. Outside, the walls have to be smooth, to deny a toehold to climbers. But inside, fine stonework isn't appropriate for a colonial outpost."

He tried to read their faces. _"You exceeded your allotted funds, and this is all you have to show for it?"_

Er-Mûrazôr bit his lip. Every good thing he'd done seemed overwhelmed by their negative impression of it. He gave it one more try.

"If I leave you with one impression, it should be this. Three years ago, this was a knob bare rock controlled by a nation that was hostile to us. There were many difficulties along the way, but we just completed the last section of wall, completely enclosing the city. Because of our perseverance in the face of difficulty, Númenor now has a beachhead into the mainland and controls of the coastline for a hundred miles in either direction."

That was it, his best shot. He'd built the walled city. There had been problems along the way. Perhaps the decision had already been made, but maybe he could still change it.

At least he'd gotten over the hard part. No one would find fault with the garrison the tradesmen's shops, and he'd end the tour on a high note.

"That large structure at the far end of the square is the Guildhall, the largest structure in the city. We use it for Council meetings, for cutting sailcloth, and in spring, as a threshing floor. Tonight, it will be the site of the banquet."

Its peaked roof reached almost two stories above the crushed shells that paved the courtyard, dwarfing the smaller buildings nearby. A garland of flowers hung above the doors, and bunches of wildflowers filled the torch brackets on either side.

One of the doors stood open. Inside, two burly men wrestled a heavy table over the tiled floor. High Table had already been set up. A white cloth reached almost to the floor, anchored by tall candlesticks.

"The food won't be what you're used to at home, but it's opulent by colonial standards. I hope it will make you feel welcome."

He took them to a long building with multiple doors was built against the wall.

"We'll visit the barracks where the garrison is housed. Both the men-at-arms and the stone workers sleep here."

Near the barracks was a squat building, solidly built with a locked door. Er-Mûrazôr called over one of the men-at-arms, who produced a key and showed them in. The wall inside the door bristled with a rack of spears.

"We don't have many swordsmen in the Haven, but anyone can learn to handle a spear. Every able-bodied man in the Haven is taught to use one as soon as he arrives. The decision to train the farmers, laborers, and craftsman to bear arms doubled the size of our garrison overnight."

Atanamir looked at him sharply, and rolled his eyes.

"What? That's good, isn't it?" Er-Mûrazôr didn't understand why Atanamir wasn't more impressed.

They returned to the Main Road, and followed it to the Market Square where the tradesmen had their shops. The ring of the anvil and the smell of wood smoke reached them before they emerged from between the closely packed houses..

The Market Square opened up before them, smaller and less formal than the Central Square. Booths housing the workshops of tradesmen lined several sides.

The inside of the smithy glowed red, and smoke curled from the chimney. Inside the forge, a gaunt-looking man in a leather apron hammered on the glowing arc of a scythe. Behind him, his apprentice worked the bellows, and the flames sprang to life.

"Don't burn up all the wood at once, boy. Have a care," the blacksmith said over his shoulder.

A workbench held an assortment of fishhooks, several boxes of nails, and a pair of door hinges. A row of spearheads stood on a shelf, and some farming implements, including a hoe and a spade of some sort, leaned against the far wall.

Er-Mûrazôr turned to speak to his visitors. He'd taken the initiative to bring the craftsmen from Númenor, and he was proud of them.

One of Atanamir's men nudged another. "What's with the arts and crafts? Don't they have real work to do?"

"Next month they're learning bobbin lace."

"Why, they're tired of counted cross-stitch?"

Er-Mûrazôr looked daggers at them, but continued speaking as if nothing had happened.

"The blacksmith was the first craftsman to join us, and the most important. Before he came here, we had to import everything from Númenor, every saw blade, every door hinge, every spearhead. We couldn't make so much as a fish hook or a bag of nails. We couldn't put a hoop on a barrel or shoe a horse. But now, we've been able to make everything from farming tools to fittings for ships."

He glanced at his brother. Atanamir was looking away, and his posture was rigid.

They walked along the row of booths. In every one of them, some tradesman was working: the cooper shaving barrel staves, the leather worker making shoes, the potter as his wheel.

It wasn't this busy on a normal day. The craftsmen often went to the alehouse or left to check on their farms, but for the tour, every booth was full. Their carpenter had gotten some bad shellfish the day before. The man sanding a wooden chest was actually Hagrith, one of the gate wardens.

""Each new tradesman we bring in makes us more independent. I'm hoping to find someone who can weave flax into linen, both for clothing and for sailcloth," said Er-Mûrazôr.

Atanamir and his chief emissary exchanged a look. A crease appeared between Atanamir's eyes. "Father said you were becoming self-sufficient. I didn't realize how much."

"When we can make things ourselves, we don't have to import as much. We don't do our own mining, yet, but we're able to trade for iron and copper."

"You have trading relationships with other nations?" asked Atanamir.

"Not diplomatic relationships exactly, but individual traders stop by on a regular basis, mostly people from the desert."

Atanamir seemed distant, and his whole body was tense.

They returned the way they'd come. Er-Mûrazôr glanced at his brother. _How did I do? Did I turn things around?_ But the whole time, Atanamir was silent, apparently wrapped in his own thoughts.

The tour was a disaster. He'd meant to showcase an important fortification for Númenor, but seen up close, it came across as a display of low-quality workmanship costing far beyond what his father had intended to spend.

He understood where he went wrong with the tour of the walls. He let them see the fieldstone construction, the scar in the stonework where the tower collapsed, and the crowding within the walls. What he didn't understand was the disapproval or even hostility directed at the tradesmen. It left him feeling off-balance.

They reached the Center Square. Er-Mûrazôr pointed out his own cottage at one corner.

"I offer you my own house for the duration of your visit, and the houses of my steward and purser for your lieutenants and officials."

"I hate to put you and your people out of your beds. We'll sleep on the Royal barge," said Atanamir.

 _Just reject my hospitality like I haven't been preparing all day._ But Atanamir may have been acting out of consideration. Or fear of being caught ashore and separated from his fleet.

They reached the square. He stopped in front of a building, smaller than the Guildhall, but larger than any of the one room cottages that lined the square.

"Here's the most important building in the settlement, The Once Proud Goose."

"You have a wine shop?" asked Atanamir, interested.

"An alehouse. The climate's too harsh for grapes, but barley does just fine," said Er-Mûrazôr.

"May a few of my people come up here to drink?"

"I don't see why not," said Er-Mûrazôr. Sailors and taverns had a way of finding each other.

Inside, homemade tables and stools were arranged in little groups around a stone fireplace.

"The furniture was made right here in the Haven, and so were the ceramic mugs. Everything is rough frontier style, but we're proud of it."

"Such an excellent tour deserves a round of ale for all of my people, and all of yours, too." Atanamir produced his purse and counted out a generous handful of coins, enough for more than one round.

This afternoon on the pier, when the gangplank was lowered, he realized it was possible he would be arrested. But if it were going to happen, it would've happened already. He was grateful for that. But after the disastrous tour, it was still almost certain they would remove him from his post. He didn't think it would happen now, not in a comfortable, crowded pub while they were waiting to be called for dinner, but it might well happen as they were leaving the Hall after the banquet.

Er-Mûrazôr pulled out a chair for himself and another for Atanamir. He was about to sit down, but Atanamir touched his arm. Atanamir said something, but his words were lost in the scrape of chairs against the flagstones.

"I'm sorry, again?" Er-Mûrazôr asked.

"Let's step outside. We need to talk."


	6. Chapter 16 - The Banquet

**The Banquet**

Er-Mûrazôr followed his brother outside, his stomach knotting with anxiety. They stood together outside the alehouse door. Atanamir licked his lips, struggling to begin.

 _Here it comes._ Atanamir was about to tell him to step down.

Er-Mûrazôr jumped in first. "Look, before you say anything, I know the tour was a disaster. It was supposed to showcase the completed fortifications, but somehow it turned into rustic stonework, collapsed towers, and too little space inside." He knew he was babbling, but he couldn't seem to stop. "The construction isn't what you're used to back in Númenor, but we did it that way for a reason. The walls had to go up quickly, before the local tribes attacked again. We had to finish as fast as we could."

Atanamir raised a hand and cut him off. "This has been coming for a long time, as I'm sure you know …"

The doors of the Guildhall were thrown open, and the Steward came striding towards them.

"Captain Mûrazôr, we're ready for you inside."

Atanamir touched his arm. "We'll talk later."

They entered the Guildhall in order of rank, according to custom. Atanamir, the oldest son of the king and his heir, led the procession. Er-Mûrazôr walked behind him. Their retainers, their stewards, lieutenants, and captains, followed behind, interleaved according to rank and years of service.

The Guildhall had been transformed. The large space normally used for Council meetings had been done over for a formal banquet.

The trestle tables were arranged to hug the walls, leaving a large open space in the center. Stone masons, shipbuilders, craftsmen, and men-at-arms had packed themselves into every available place on the benches. The buzz of conversation hit him like the roar of the ocean, but it dropped to a murmur when the nobility entered the room.

Er-Mûrazôr felt their eyes on him. He didn't like the attention, but as the son of a king, he was used to it. He stood straight and held his eyes straight ahead.

The High Table dominated the far end of the room. The Steward hadn't had time to build a raised dais on such short notice, but even without the added height, he and his men had achieved an impressive effect. The table was long enough to seat twelve on one side. No table of that size existed in the colony. Er-Mûrazôr wondered how they'd created the illusion.

The long table was covered in white cloths reaching almost to the floor. Earlier in the day, they might have been called bedsheets, but this evening, they were linen tablecloths. Garlands of wildflowers hung from the front edge of the table, and each end was anchored by a heavy pewter candlestick. Usually a dull gray in color, they'd been polished as bright as silver for the occasion. The effect was simple and colonial, but it had an air of grandeur.

A throne-like chair sat in the center of the High Table, made from exotic hardwood and skillfully carved. An import from Númenor, it was normally Er-Mûrazôr's when he presided over Council meetings as Captain of the Haven. Atanamir sat down in the tall chair, the place of honor. Er-Mûrazôr sat at his right hand, in a chair only slightly smaller and less ornate.

Notes from a harp wafted through the hall, quiet and contemplative, like water dripping from leaves. Conversation around him was light and inconsequential. He heard some news from home, of Atanamir's family and the new baby who just started to walk, of a cousin who was getting married.

Er-Mûrazôr sat stiffly, his mind racing. Insubordination was a crime, even for a royal prince. The unexpected arrival of twenty-five warships told him the Palace took it very seriously.

He'd half-expected to be arrested when Atanamir's ship landed this afternoon. He tried not to worry.

The tour had been a disaster, an exhibit of rustic stonework, collapsed towers, and overcrowding, of sloppy work performed at great expense. Surprisingly, his tradesmen hadn't impressed them, either. He couldn't fathom why not. He felt sure Atanamir meant to remove him as they stood outside the alehouse. If the Stewart hadn't interrupted them when he did, it would've happened then.

He was out of immediate danger. Nothing would happen during the feast. Atanamir wouldn't cause a scene in public, but the unspoken threat hung over him, as disturbing and unavoidable as the knowledge of his own mortality.

The danger would come when the feast ended. After the last course had been cleared from the tables and the harp fell silent, the guests would file out of the Hall, giving them one of their few opportunities to speak privately. Left alone at the table, or perhaps standing in the darkness in front of the Guildhall, Atanamir would say, "Let's talk." But until the decision was spoken aloud, it wasn't real. He had until the feast ended, however long it took to serve five courses, to change his brother's mind. He thought about what to do next.

The first course was brought in. High Table was served, starting in the center and working outward. One of the watchmen acting as server set a bowl before Atanamir, and then set one before Er-Mûrazôr, a fragrant chicken broth thickened with carrots and turnips. It was a dish for poor people, but this version was served in beautiful bowls and decorated with sprigs of thyme. It was served with fresh bread, of finely milled flour, newly baked and still warm.

The lower tables were served next, beginning with those closest to High Table and working down wards. Soon, even those in the lowest ranking places, closest to the doors, had steaming bowls set on the rough wood in front of them.

One of the sailors did cartwheels and back bends for their entertainment. As his final act, he put his palms on the flagstones, kicked his feet in the air, and took two or three shaky steps on his hands until his elbows gave way and he wobbled and fell. The room applauded him. Er-Mûrazôr felt just as off-balance.

Atanamir leaned closer. Shouting over the noise of conversation and music, he said, "Father needs your help on something in Númenor."

Er-Mûrazôr smiled to himself. He liked to feel needed. He especially liked it if Father asked for his advice.

"There's a fishing village on the western side in Númenor. They're trying to build a jetty to protect the harbor from ocean swells. Between the difficulties of underwater construction and the heavy waves, they can't do it. Father thinks, with your experience in stonework, you'd be able to help them."

Feeling pleased gave way to feeling insulted. The village was far from the capital, a backwater, and the project was simple compared to building the Haven.

"Yule is your favorite holiday, isn't that right?" asked Atanamir. He leaned in so close, it was easy to feel the heat from his body.

"Yes," said Er-Mûrazôr. Something was up.

"And you've always enjoyed the preparations?" He looked as if he really cared about the answer.

"Yes, I have." Er-Mûrazôr pulled away and regarded his brother with suspicion.

"You'll be home for the Yule preparations for the first time in three years. You'll like that, won't you?"

Er-Mûrazôr bristled. He hadn't agreed to build the jetty, and Atanamir was talking as if he had.

Atanamir sighed. "You should know, I don't want to take the Haven from you. I have a wife and baby at home, and I don't want to leave them."

Er-Mûrazôr felt a flicker of hope.

"Unfortunately, we're both bound by Father's orders," said Atanamir.

 _So we're both unhappy. Wonderful._

"So it's settled, then. We'll put the needs of the kingdom first."

Er-Mûrazôr fell silent and wouldn't discuss it anymore.

The second course was an artistic arrangement of red cabbage and onions boiled in vinegar. Biting steam rose from the dish. It began to get dark outside, and the torches were lit. He pushed his food around his plate without touching it. A trio of stone workers played a dance tune on penny whistles and drums. Below the salt, soldier and laborers bobbed their heads to the music and tapped their feet beneath the trestle tables.

The clamor made conversation impossible, for which he was grateful. It gave him a chance to think. As he saw it, whether he stayed in his post or was removed depended on how good a job his visitors thought he had done, building the city.

He'd done a good job building the city. The fortification dominated the harbor and allowed them to control the coast for a hundred miles in either direction. Unfortunately, his visitors didn't seem to share his opinion.

With sudden, painful clarity, he realized his mistake. Their first impression of the Haven had been up close, where they'd seen slapdash construction, crowding, and dirt. It would've been better if they'd seen the city from a distance.

In the high desert above the promontory, there was a place he liked to ride out and go hawking. He wouldn't have to say anything. They see how the fortress crowned the promontory and dominated the harbor below. The cosmetic flaws that had been such a problem close up would be invisible at a distance, and all along the coast, they would see farmland under cultivation, enough to feed the city, and even a surplus to export to Númenor, where it was badly needed. He couldn't undo the bad impression from this afternoon, but he might be able to turn it around.

The main doors opened, and with a fanfare of drums, the third course arrived. Four servants carried a whole lamb on a board balanced on their shoulders, which they said in the middle of High Table. It was surrounded by roast apples and wore a crown of herbs.

"What, no roast suckling pig?" asked Atanamir, his eyes teasing.

"No, we don't have any pigs in the colony. It's mostly barley and turnips for us on a regular day," said Er-Mûrazôr.

Er-Mûrazôr tried to gage his brother's mood, but Atanamir was a courtier and politician, he was hard to read. Always pleasant, always affable, he could appear relaxed even when he wasn't.

Atanamir had contributed some very good wine from Armenelos, which solved the problem of serving barley ale to royalty. That would have been an open admission of, if not poverty exactly, then at least of the rough frontier aspect of the colony.

Er-Mûrazôr hadn't tasted red wine since the last time he was home. He drank deeply. Soon he felt himself start to relax, and the terrible anxiety began to release its grip.

Atanamir leaned back in his tall chair and rested an ankle on his knee, turning the stem of his wine goblet between thumb and finger.

One of the stone masons sang a ballad with another accompanying him on a lute.

He had to show Atanamir the city from the high desert. The trick was, how to get his brother to agree to it?

When the song ended and the last note had been plucked, Er-Mûrazôr leaned over to his brother and touched his arm.

"You've been cooped up on a boat for days. I expect you're ready for some exercise. Would you like to ride into the high desert tomorrow and go hawking?"

"I don't really care for hawking. I've never been good at it. I much prefer indoor pursuits, like music or chess," said Atanamir. He turned back to his emissary, who was seated on his other side.

"Or conversing with the ladies," said the emissary.

"Or dabbling in intrigue," said Atanamir. They both laughed.

Er-Mûrazôr wanted to say, "It's not about hawking. I need you to see the city as it really is," but even though he needed this very badly, the words seemed to stick in his throat.

The plate in front of him was replaced with another, guinea fowl caught in the desert by shepherds with stones with slings. One of the shipwrights strolled to the center of the room. "It's well known that sailors are given to yarnin', but the man who told me the tale swears it's true."

He launched into an outrageous tale about why an octopus makes a better sweetheart than a mermaid. Er-Mûrazôr felt his face burning, while Atanamir on one side and his Steward on the other were bent over laughing and wiping tears from their eyes.

He turned to speak to his Steward, but the man was listing to someone on his other side.

"Did you hear the news from the shipyard? Some of the ship builders went into the old forest north of here, the only place where pines grow tall enough for masts. Well, they'd barely entered the outskirts of the woods when a huge boar charged them. They only just escaped with their lives, and neither bribes nor threats can make them go back. Now there's an oceangoing vessel sitting unfinished in the shipyard for lack of a mast."

Er-Mûrazôr went rigid. _No! Don't talk about anything else that went wrong. There's already enough to sink me!_

Atanamir leaned closer. "Did you say a wild boar has been terrorizing your ship builders? I've always wanted to hunt a wild boar, but I've never had a chance. There are no old-growth forests on Númenor. Beyond the Palace walls, there's nothing but fields under cultivation. " He looked wistful.

"Why this sudden interest in boar hunting?" asked Er-Mûrazôr.

Atanamir lowered his head and pushed a piece of bread around his plate. "I've never been blooded."

"What, seriously?" Er-Mûrazôr was taken aback.

Blooding was an ancient ritual performed the first time a man rode into battle, or in times of peace, the first time he hunted a truly dangerous animal.

Er-Mûrazôr had been blooded three years ago. To gain possession of the harbor, he'd led a skirmish against the local people and killed a man in battle. Afterwards, he'd knelt beside one of the corpses, and a priest had dabbed blood from the dead man's wounds on his forehead. The ritual was silly, but even so, he felt changed for having been through it.

Atanamir said, "Númenor has been at peace since before you or I were born. I've had military training all my life, but I've never had a chance to use it. I know it's just an old superstition, but it's an important ritual of manhood. The men under my command would think less of me if I hadn't been through it."

 _As a ritual of manhood, it's not as important as laying with a girl,_ Er-Mûrazôr didn't say, given his own failings in that area.

Clearly Atanamir wanted this very badly. Er-Mûrazôr had a hard time taking it seriously. Getting blooded on a hunt was pretend play compared to getting blooded in battle. But it didn't matter. It got them all on horseback and outside the walls, where they could see the strategic location of the Haven. He smiled to himself. This might turn out all right after all.

"You have a good supply of spears of the Armory. Do you think they could be adapted for boar hunting? A boar spear needs a crossbar," said Atanamir.

"You wouldn't just set the dogs on the boar and spear him from the side?" asked the Steward.

"The books say to plant the butt of the spear in the ground, hold it with both hands, and when the boar charges, he runs himself through. The crosspiece prevents him from running up the shaft and reaching you with his knife-like tusks."

Hunting boar could be as dangerous as riding into battle, but Atanamir was right. If the boar was a threat to the loggers or farmers, it was the duty of the nobility to take care of it.

Atanamir wouldn't remove him until after they completed the hunt, he felt sure of it. And the longer the delay, the less likely that anything bad would happen. He made an effort to relax his jaw. His teeth ached.

The last course was brought in, an array of sweets. The servers carried trays of honey pastries, dates, and hard cheese arranged on platters with sprigs of sugared rosemary. For the first time all evening, he finally had an appetite. It was too bad that all the meat and bread had been cleared away. He would make due with fruit and cheese. But it didn't matter. He got what he wanted, the chance to show them the Haven from a distance. Everything was starting to go right.

"Let's ride out at first light. Who will go on the hunt, other than you and me? My emissaries and officials, your steward and your captains. Is that all of the nobility?" asked Atanamir.

"I'd also like to bring one of the loggers, they'll know where to find the boar. And one of my stone workers used to be a swineherd. He knows pigs," said Er-Mûrazôr.

"Can your blacksmith add a crossbar to a spear between now and morning?" asked Atanamir.

"I don't see why not," said Er-Mûrazôr.

A farm wife finished her song, and the last notes died away from the harp. People stood up from their benches and began to file out. The Steward went off to find the blacksmith before he left the hall.

Atanamir broke off a conversation with one of his emissaries. "Meet you outside the stables at first light? "

"At first light," said Er-Mûrazôr.

Atanamir looked like he wanted to say something else, but Er-Mûrazôr saw a gap in the crowd between some soldiers and the tradesmen and plunged into it.


	7. Chapter 17 - The Boar Hunt

**The Boar Hunt**

Er-Mûrazôr lay awake in his room. The moon was approaching fall, and its silver light washed the room of all color. The dark red curtains around his bed looked pewter-gray in the moonlight. He had to get his best tomorrow, sharp-witted and able to make a persuasive argument. And for that, he needed sleep. _Lying quietly can be as restfully sleeping._ He tried hard to make himself believe it.

There was cause for optimism. Nothing had happened yet. The longer it continued not happening, the more likely he was to get through this.

What if he ended up before a court of law? He didn't think he'd be executed. He had a fiery temper, but he didn't think he'd ever said anything treasonous. He wasn't dangerous to his father or brother. Surely they knew that. Didn't they?

A silver rectangle crept across the dirt floor, the motion of the moon marking the advance of hours. He turned over and crossed his arms behind his head. Beyond the foot of his bed, was the open mouth of the fireplace, tall enough to walk into, if he bent down beneath the mantle. In the darkness, a mouse scurried across the floor.

Tomorrow was his best and only chance to show how much they needed to keep him here, in his current position. Whatever happened to him next hinged upon it.

-o-o-o-o-o-

He woke to Oswin shaking his arm. "You want to go on the hunt, don't you? You told me to wake you in time to leave at dawn," said his agitated clerk.

For someone who'd been up most of the night, dawn arrived more quickly than expected. He struggled to come fully awake. He waited until Oswin left the room, then pulled on his hunting clothes and boots. Not stylish, but easy to move in, and old enough he wasn't worried if they got ruined.

He hurried to the Desert Gate where they'd agreed to meet. On the way through the Market Square, he saw that the forge had been fired up. Orange light spilled into the courtyard, and the hammer rank against the anvil.

The silhouettes of several people stood black against the hearth. Er-Mûrazôr went over to join them. Atanamir and some of his people were watching the blacksmith work.

Half a dozen spears from the Armory were leaning against the wall of the forge. The smith had taken the head off of one of them and was remaking it.

"I wish we'd had time to make more boar spears. The crossbar is the secret to a good boar spear, or so I've heard," said Atanamir.

It occurred to Er-Mûrazôr that none of them knew what they were doing. Atanamir knew more about boar hunting than the rest, which was almost nothing at all.

The blacksmith fitted the glowing spearhead to an ashwood shaft and set it aside to cool. Once the glowing metal turned gray, the spearhead hugged the shaft and couldn't be pulled loose. The blacksmith quenched it in a barrel of water, then handed it to Atanamir.

"Are we ready to go?" Atanamir was already moving towards the stables.

At the stables by the Desert Gate, five horses waited, already saddled and tacked up. Two donkeys had been saddled as well, for the ship builder who knew where the boar was and the stone smith who'd worked as a swineherd.

Er-Mûrazôr recognized the two large mastiffs used by the watchmen to guard the gate, but there were also some some medium-sized dogs and a small terrier. He hoped the mastiffs didn't eat the terrier, it barely looked big enough for a snack.

"Groom, we need water skins for everyone, and bread and cheese for the midday meal," said Er-Mûrazôr.

"Done and done, sir. You each have enough for a two or three day trek through the desert, " said the groom.

Atanamir interrupted them. "I only count five horses. Tindomul, would you mind leaving your steward behind so my emissary can come along?"

The steward, who was middle-aged and did not love physical danger, appeared to sag with relief.

"I think that would be all right," Atanamir now had four members of his party, and Er-Mûrazôr had only three. He cynically wondered if Atanamir had maneuvered it so his people outnumbered Er-Mûrazôr's. It crossed his mind that it was possible Atanamir didn't trust him. That stung.

"My lords, shall we mount up?" Atanamir swung into the saddle, and everyone else followed his lead.

The route to the old forest led them through the high desert, the place where Er-Mûrazôr liked to go hawking. The sun was just risen over the desert.

It was still too dark to see the walls of the city except as a general outline, but even so, they looked astonishing. The city sat on the promontory like a crown, the walls even and perfectly symmetrical , the towers all the same shape and evenly spaced. It was obvious the city commanded great military power, and all around it, green farmland stretched up and down the coast.

Atanamir stared. "What you've done is magnificent."

Er-Mûrazôr couldn't stop smiling.

Atanamir shot him a look. "Just so you know. Nothing you did wrong will hurt you, but, nothing you did right can help you."

Er-Mûrazôr pressed him to explain what he meant, but Atanamir wouldn't say more.

The road for about two hours, and reached the edge of the forest. At its edge, it was saplings and brambles. They followed a game trail through the undergrowth. An unseen bird took flight and startled the horses. Atanamir's emissary was almost thrown.

The dogs barked continually. The Terriers yapping was particularly high-pitched, and never seem to stop. After a little while, one of the men cried out, "Look, it's the hoof print of the boar."

The swineherd knelt in the mud to study it. "It's a deer print. We've been seeing them ever since we got here."

They rode deeper into the forest. Trees got taller and blocked the light. It was cooler in here than it had been in the desert, yet Er-Mûrazôr found that he was sweating.

Long slashes cut the bark of a medium-sized tree. Soon they saw another. "That's from the tusks", said the swineherd. The lashes were alarmingly high off the ground, almost as high as a man's chest.

"Look at that!" cried one of Atanamir's people. He didn't need to say anything, they all saw the great auburn-colored beast that plunged across the trail with enormous speed.

"That was a sow. She has no tusks, but you'd best keep your distance, she probably has a litter of piglets nearby."

"Are you saying that was a little one?" asked Atanamir, looking doubtful for the first time since they set out.

"Oh aye. The boar we saw was the size of the house, silver grey with bristles all along its back, and it's tusks were like scimitars," said the shipbuilder.

"Those razorbacks are mean, especially when you enter their territory," said the swineherd.

Saplings gave way to ancient trees, pines and oaks. Acorns crunched underfoot, and occasionally one fell from a tree, surprisingly loud.

"What I said about territory, often what they're guarding is acorns. See this hoof-print? The two halves are wide apart, and more rounded than a deer's," said the swineherd.

The print was enormous, the size of a man's hand.

"This is about where we saw him," said the shipbuilder.

The forest seemed to fall silent, and then there was a low sound, sort of a moaning, and a scuffling in the underbrush.

"Look sharp," said the swineherd.

In that moment they saw it, huge and black, the bristles along its back standing up like spines. It rubbed its nose on the ground and through the dirt in the air, pine the ground and squealing and squealing.

Atanamir dropped from the saddle, clutching the boar spirit both hands. The pig charged. Atanamir held his ground, but the pig ran him over and knocked him down. Er-Mûrazôr was on the ground and running in an instant. He grabbed the boar by the back leg and pulled. He managed to pull the brute off his brother, at least until the creature kicked free and bolted into the forest.

Atanamir sat up, unharmed. "That was different than expected. I thought I'd get gored, but all I have is hoof-shaped bruises." He showed a tear in his leggings that revealed a long scratch on the inside of his thigh.

They rode on. After a while, Atanamir said, "Maybe this attack from the front approach doesn't work. When he was charging me, all I saw was his head. The books say to stand it in the chest, but all I saw was it's well-protected skull. The tip of my spear glanced right off it."

The dogs tracked the boar by scent, barking the whole time.

"I have a new plan. We're going to let the dogs encircle the boar, and while they're hanging off it, I'm going to spear the boar from the side. If the dogs hold it still, I can get a shot straight through the heart," said Atanamir.

There was a sound like a bird call. Everyone froze.

"That's him," whispered the swineherd.

He was right, it wasn't a bird call, it was a high-pitched squeal. With a sound like a storm at sea, the boar plunged from the underbrush onto the trail. The dogs encircled it, barking, but it turned on them and they turned tail and ran off, yelping with fear. The men raised their spears, but didn't dismount.

The boar approached the horsemen, and the young emissary threw his spear. It struck, but the boar trotted off, the tip embedded in its hide, dragging on the ground into it fell off, quite a distance from them.

"Clever you, figuring out a new way to disarm yourself," said another of Atanamir's people.

There was a long period of silence, and then a sudden noise and commotion, barking and squealing and grunting all at once. Er-Mûrazôr raised his spear to throw it, his foot slid from the stirrup, and he found himself on the ground with the wind knocked out.

Magic was dancing around, the flashing hooves inches from his hand. He hoped it was true that a horse wouldn't step on a fallen body, that they didn't like to trod on anything soft.

He lost his grip on the spear when he fell. Feeling around on the ground, his fingers closed around the shaft, but when he tried to lift it, he realized he was lying on top of it. There was a low grunting, and something heavy stepped on his stomach, and tusks lashed back and forth in front of his face.

The dogs leapt all around them, barking and snarling, leaping up and hanging onto whatever they'd caught in their jaws. The dogs stepped on his arms and stomach, their claws leaving long scratches in his skin. Someone grabbed the monster's snout and pulled it up, and then with a squeal, it fell over sideways, and lay quite still.

Atanamir yanked the boar spear from the pig's side, then planted the butt on the ground and leaned on it, striking a casual pose. Blood covered the spear tip and the upper half of the shaft. Atanamir's hand and sleeve for covered in blood. He extended his other hand, and Er-Mûrazôr took it.

"Well, you look to be in one piece, although you could use a wash," said Atanamir.

Er-Mûrazôr looked down. He was covered in mud, but except for the dog scratches, he was uninjured. Atanamir, on the other hand, had a deep slash across his palm. Most of the blood on his clothes was his own.

"You know, grabbing the boar by the snout was really stupid. He has these things called tusks," said Er-Mûrazôr.

"And when does someone who could ride before he could walk overbalance and fall off his horse?" asked Atanamir.

They sat for a moment in companionable silence.

"Tindomul, perhaps we shouldn't mention this to Father, just like we didn't mention the cliff diving," said Atanamir.

"No. It would worry him needlessly," said Er-Mûrazôr,

Atanamir was holding his hand under his arm. Blood soaked into the the white linen of his shirt. "I used that hand to hold the spear when I drove it into the boar's heart. I didn't feel it until things settled down."

"Give me your hand, I'll patch you up." Er-Mûrazôr tore a strip of linen from his own shirt and bandage Atanamir's hand. He tore another strip for a sling.

"Now kneel." Atanamir knelt at his feet, beside the carcass of the boar. Er-Mûrazôr dipped a thumb into the wound over the boar's heart and damned blood on to Atanamir's forehead. Atanamir grinned.

 _May this be a fortunate day for all of us, may we all get the thing we want most._

"This had been a wonderful day," said Er-Mûrazôr.

"It will make good memories of this place, to take home to Númenor." Atanamir smiled back at him.

Er-Mûrazôr stiffened, and his nails dug into his palms. "You misunderstood me. I'm not leaving."


	8. Chapter 18 - The Land Sale

**The Land Sale**

They returned from the hunt, sweaty and dusty and covered in triumph. The servants carried the carcass of the boar off to the kitchens. The beast was huge, everyone in the city would dine on roast pork tonight.

His brother said, "I'm going to wash and then lie down for an hour. I'll see you later this afternoon."

It would probably be longer than that. Most people from Númenor slept though the heat of the day, and it was hotter here during the midday hours than it was on the island. He didn't expect to see them until the cook finished roasting the boar and the bells range for supper.

As Captain of the Haven and governor of a new colony, Er-Mûrazôr didn't have the luxury of sleeping while there was still daylight.

The most pressing chore on his list was to complete the land sale to the farmer, not because it was important, but because he'd put the man off twice before today and he felt guilty.

He intended to tell his clerk, "I'm going down to the farms, I'll be back in an hour or two," but his clerk wasn't around. He looked for writing materials, to leave a note, but the table had been swept clean when they tidied up for visitors.

He looked for the Haven's Haven controlled vast tracks of farmland, and much of it hadn't yet been allocated to any particular farmer. As Captain of the Haven, he was authorized to sell plots of farmland to settlers.

A wealthy merchant turned farmer wanted to buy one of the largest tracts, and the sooner Er-Mûrazôr signed over the deed, the sooner he could begin planting. When he had time to think about it, he felt guilty about the delay.

The transaction was a large one. The Purser handled money for the colony, but when Er-Mûrazôr went to look for him, he wasn't in the dark little cubby that served as his office, nor was his assistant. Er-Mûrazôr shrugged, then picked up the official seal the necessary forms from his desk, and headed for the stables without him.

At the stables, Magic looked exhausted. He'd been rubbed down and watered, but Mûrazôr had ridden him hard during the boar hunt, and it showed. None of the other horses looked any better. Er-Mûrazôr was saddle-sore himself. The farmland was only a few miles away, there was nothing wrong with walking.

The farmer's compound was surrounded by a circular brush wall, almost a stockade, to keep out wild animals and possibly desert raiders. Er-Mûrazôr suppressed the fiercest of them when he claimed the Haven, but they were still out there.

He looked around, admiring how much had been built in just a few months.

"The last time I was here, this was just a single mudbrick house, defended only by dogs. Now it's four or five mudbrick houses surrounded by a stockade."

The farmer smiled, clearly proud of his work.

"What did you do, bring your whole clan over from Númenor?" asked Er-Mûrazôr.

"I came over here with a couple of my sons. After we got settled, they sent for their wives and children. Then two more of my sons joined us, and we're expecting a nephew to come over pretty soon."

"You were a wealthy merchant back in Armenelos. Why did you move to a colonial outpost?"

"Oh you know how it is. Every year things got more expensive, and the Capital was more crowded." His face darkened. "Actually, between the slave uprising and the food riots a few months later, it was a risky venture to run a shop selling luxury goods. The second time we were smashed and limited, I started to dream of the simpler life."

Er-Mûrazôr nodded. Many people in the capital had romanticized ideas of farming. The merchant turned farmer led the way into the largest of the huts. The inside was decorated in dark red rugs and copper vessels in a low table inlaid with exotic woods.

"It looks like you've been trading with the desert people. "

"Well, I may be a farmer of barley and rye nowadays, but I'm still a merchant. I noticed that the sea shells which produce purple dye that we harvest in Númenor can be traded for spices grown only in the desert. And this being such an important trading port, the haven is, well let's just say there's a lot of potential there."

There were great heaps of copper in the back of the house, far more than an ordinary family would need. And all around the compound, the land the farmer already owned was heavily planted in barley and rye.

Er-Mûrazôr inclined his head. "Now, if I had a suspicious nature, I'd say you're going to ferment and is still your grain, rather than export it to Númenor where it's so desperately needed."

The old merchant blanched. "Some have observed that it's easier to transport grain when it's been turned into alcohol."

Er-Mûrazôr didn't care, he was just teasing the man. "Now, about the land sale."

A week earlier, Er-Mûrazôr told the merchant he could have the land for six gold coins. He unrolled a map showing the tract of land, and the merchant put twelve gold coins on the map.

"No, that's too much." Er-Mûrazôr pushed the extras back.

The merchant held up his hands in protest. "I walked around the land, and it's very rich and fertile. In good conscience, I could not purchase it from the Haven for any less."

Er-Mûrazôr was dense about court intrigue, but even he could recognize a bribe, even one offered as skillfully as this. The Haven would have more gold in its coffers than planned. Since he didn't care one way or the other, the Purser would have to deal with it.

"Very good." He signed the deed and gave it to the farmer.


	9. Chapter 19 - The Gathering Storm

Er-Mûrazôr left the compound of the wealthy merchant turned farmer, the purse of coins heavy at his belt. He headed up the path back to the walled city.

He walked along the dirt road between cultivated fields, the plants heavy with barley and wheat. Within a week, it will be time to bring in the harvest. Already, carts stood ready for the corners of the fields next to farm lanes.

The sun was just past its zenith, and it beat down on his black hair. Next time, he would remember to wear a straw hat, like the farmers bent over their crops with a hoe, chopping weeds.

He hiked up the path toward the walled city. Perched on top of the hill, the fortifications loomed heavy and intimidating. He felt a surge of pride. The walls might be crude, they might not be very tall, and they might not enclose enough space, but damn they looked impressive from here.

The Desert Gate stood open. Just inside it, half a dozen men milled around, blocking the entrance. Their tabards were identical to those of his own men. They bore the badge of Númenor, but the colors were brighter, and the fabric showed no signs of wear. They must be Atanamir's people. He wouldn't have forbidden them to wander the city drink at the alehouse, but Atanamir should asked him first.

One of the soldiers saw him and looked startled.

"That's him. Tall, with blue-black hair," he said, pointing.

The man stepped directly in front of Er-Mûrazôr and blocked his path. He grabbed Er-Mûrazôr by the arm, and fingers like iron dug into his flesh.

Another soldier laid a hand on the first man's arm.

"No need for that. It's not like he's leaving."

The grip relaxed, and Er-Mûrazôr shook himself free. He fixed the soldiers in an icy stare, and they stepped aside to let him pass.

He entered the Market Square. On the far side, the fire had died down in the forge and the potter's wheel was still. Only the leather worker was sitting at his bench, bent over his work, his hand lifting with each stitch.

The Steward's clerk entered the courtyard. Er-Mûrazôr nodded to the boy, who looked away and hurried past him. That was strange, and not like him.

The sound of footsteps made him look back. Several soldiers had entered the square, and seemed to be trailing him at a distance. It wasn't clear if they were following him or just moving in the same direction, but within a few minutes, they peeled off and joined two other soldiers hanging around in front of the Armory.

He ducked into the alley that passed between houses pressed close together, then opened onto the Center Square.

The exit was blocked by a line of soldiers extended from the door of the alehouse. The smell of roasting meat reached him, and a curl of smoke rose from the alehouse kitchen, a lean-to at the back of the building.

Visitors often took their meals at the alehouse. It had a kitchen and could feed a large number of people. An alehouse dinner cost a few coppers, dining in the mess hall was free. It would be a good deed to tell Atanamir the soldiers were welcome to eat in the mess hall. He could move some funds off the purchase of some timber to cover the expense. He bit his lip. He had bigger problems than that.

He pushed through Atanamir's men to reach the Center Square. His sudden appearance seemed to fluster them. He ignored the eyes fastened on him.

There were four more soldiers standing around in front of the Guildhall, not quite flanking it like sentries, but not quite loitering, either. The tall arched doors were closed.

He passed them and went straight to the purser's house next his own, which was also the purser's office. He would ask the purser to count have the money for the land sale and entered into the ledger book.

When he arrived at his purser's house, the door was shut, and no one answered to his knock. It an hour past midday, when it would be reasonable to expect people to be sleeping. He looked for his steward next, but again, the small cottage was closed and dark.

Er-Mûrazôr returned to his own house, which was empty. Even Oswin, his clerk, was gone. It was an hour past midday, and Oswin was usually back by now. He scowled with irritation. Since everyone else was missing, he would have to enter the details of the land sale himself.

He looked for his own copy of the ledger book, normally buried somewhere in the sea of papers on the table he used for writing. He gasped. The rough-hewn boards had been swept clean. Nothing remained but the bare wood.

Then he remembered Oswin had packed his papers away when they straightened up the room for visitors that morning. He put a hand to his chest, and waited for his pulse to drop to something like its normal rate.

The strongbox normally sat on a larger chest against the back wall. He looked, expecting to see the sturdy coffer bound in heavy bands of iron. It wasn't there. Oswin had said something about tucking it out of sight.

He looked at a square hole in the ceiling. A ladder reached through it into the darkness of the storage loft. The box could also be under the bed. The silk hangings fell almost to the floor, blocking whatever was behind them from sight. He hadn't been paying close attention that morning, he couldn't remember where they decided to put the box.

Then his eye rested on the fireplace grate, and his blood ran cold. The crumpled ball of paper wasn't there.

A day or two ago, still fuming after he learned that his father had placed him under daily supervision, he sat down and wrote something for no one's eyes but his own, about how badly he'd been treated and how angry he was. But as soon as he read his own words, he realized he'd gone too far. He didn't really wish his father were dead, but in the right hands, it could have gotten him executed for treason.

He crumpled up the paper, the wet ink smearing on his hands, and lobbed it into the fireplace. The fire wasn't lit at this time of year. He began to say the spell to make it burn. but his Steward entered the room at that moment and interrupted him. Somehow he hadn't thought about it since then. Maybe he had burned it. Maybe Oswin and cleaned it up when he tidied the room. He wished he knew.

He couldn't remember exactly what was in the paper. He wasn't sure whether they were papers in the wooden chest that were critical of his father or brother. He didn't think so, but he wasn't sure.

Oswin entered the room, and seemed startled to see Er-Mûrazôr there.

"Where's the strongbox?" Er-Mûrazôr asked him.

"I was looking for you earlier. Where were you?" Without waiting for an answer, he stepped outside.

The fireplace grate had been swept clean. No crumpled ball of paper. It was missing too. What had he said on it? But he wasn't plotting anything, not had he skimmed money from official funds, if for no reason other than his ascetic nature - he spent very little on himself. No, he hadn't done anything wrong the whole world didn't already know about.

Tense, Er-Mûrazôr stood and waited. A few minutes later, two strong men entered without knocking. One was a Númenorian official who looked slightly familiar. The other, a stranger, was taller and broader in the shoulders then the Er-Mûrazôr. He said nothing, but stood back and watched him closely.

"You missed the Council meeting," said the official.

"What Council meeting?" asked Er-Mûrazôr.

"Tar-Atanamir summoned everyone in the Haven who holds rank to meet with him in the Guild Hall."

"What did they talk about?"

The two men exchanged a look. "You'll have to ask him yourself. We're here to bring you to him. He's in the Guildhall."

The blood roared in his ears.

He pulled on a long formal tunic, gray-green silk with gold embroidery, and strapped on his two-handed sword, a badge of rank. On his way out, he snagged a cloak from the peg by the door and draped it over his shoulders.

"You do realize you never took off your hunting clothes?" said the official.

"I'm in a hurry."

The house had one room and no privacy. Er-Mûrazôr didn't want the clerk to know this hardened soldier was as modest as any girl.

When he was dressed, he stepped out into the sunlight with one of the two men on either side. They walked across the courtyard. He wasn't exactly a prisoner, and he wasn't exactly free either.

He stepped into the sunlight and walked across the courtyard, one of them walking on either side of him, uncomfortably close. He wasn't exactly prisoner, but he wasn't exactly liberty, either.


	10. Chapter 20 - The Second Offer

**The Second Offer**

Er-Mûrazôr strode across the square between the two men. It was only a hundred paces from his store to the Guildhall of the Council of Captains, but each one seemed like an effort. The whole while, none of them spoke.

They reached the Guildhall. The wildflower garland above the door was still there, but the greenery looked tired, and the flowers seem to have curled in on themselves.

He grasped one of the wrought iron handles and pulled open the door. Inside, late afternoon sun cast long rectangles of yellow light onto the flagstones, and the smell of new lumber overpowered the scent of beeswax candles.

At the far end of the Hall, several smaller tables had to push together to form a single long table, the High Table from the feast the night before. The other tables from the feast had been pushed against the walls, leaving a large open space in the middle of the room. A low three-legged stool had been placed in front of the long table.

A dozen or more chairs, most of them empty and pushed back at an angle, crowded around the High Table. His brother Atanamir sat at its center in Er-Mûrazôr's own chair, as he had at the banquet the night before.

Two other men flanked his brother. One was Corwin, the good-natured emissary who'd been aboard every dispatch ship since the colony was established it. He was the one who'd brought the fatal message, "Gift the Haven to your brother."

The other was the hawk-faced man with a narrow beard and iron-colored hair that seem to have a mind of its own, the one who'd asked unpleasant questions on the tour. Er-Mûrazôr knew little about him, except that he was a Palace-intrigue friend of Atanamir's, and one of their father's advisers. Father used him to do things he'd rather not do himself, like deliver a reprimand or tell someone he'd been demoted.

Atanamir looked up from a sheath of papers. "Tindomul, please have a seat," he said, indicating the stool in the open space in front of the table.

Er-Mûrazôr sat down. The stool was too low for a man of his size, and the tip of the scabbard scraped against the paving stones. Standing, he was taller than the other men, but seated, he had to look up to meet their eyes. He was acutely aware of the implied loss of status.

"I expect you're wondering what this is about," said his brother.

Er-Mûrazôr's hands were shaking. He held them in his lap and willed himself to calm down.

"Will you to gift the Haven to me?" asked his brother.

"We've been over this before. "The answer is no, the Haven belongs to me." He tried to keep his annoyance in check. He couldn't believe they were having this conversation.

Atanamir exchanged a look with the young emissary, and held out his hand. The emissary opened a wooden coffer and produced an official-looking document, sealed with red wax, which he placed in Atanamir's hand. Atanamir slid it across the table.

"It's from Father. He's recalled you to Númenor and ordered me to take your place," said Atanamir.

A bead of sweat ran between Er-Mûrazôr's shoulder blades, and the fabric beneath his arms had soaked through. He regretted his decision to pull on a clean shirt over the one he was wearing, the room was too warm for two shirts.

He broke the seal and unfolded the parchment. The first page was covered in his father's rounded handwriting, familiar and reassuring.

 _You will have no further role in governing the Haven of Umbar._

His breath hissed between his teeth. It was over. The decision had been made before they'd even sailed from Armenelos.

"I don't understand why Father wants me removed. I captured the Haven. I built the walled city. I did everything he asked."

He leafed through the pages, but in his rattled state, he wasn't able to pull meaning from the dense legal jargon. He went back to the first page and started over, reading more slowly. Even so, he only caught bits and pieces of it. How he'd hanged a man outside the powers given to him by law. How he'd tried to strangle his father's personal secretary and throw him over a cliff.

 _Nonsense. If I really had been trying, he'd be dead by now._

The text was full of strike-outs and repeated phrases, and ink blots where the pen had leaked. They hadn't bothered to write out a fair copy. It was disrespectful. He minded the insult as much as the description of his faults.

He finished reading the document. He set it down, and realized he hadn't seen the provision about staying on as his brother's assistant.

He finished reading the document. After he set it down, he realized he hadn't seen the provision about staying on to teach Atanamir how to run the Haven.

"Isn't there supposed to be a clause in here about showing you the ropes? Last time this came up, Father asked me to work with you for a couple of months."

"That's no longer on the table. You're to leave at once," said Atanamir.

"I don't understand. Why Father would want to remove me? I captured the Haven. I built the walled city. I did everything he asked. I'll keep doing whatever he asks."

A scribe scribbled furiously, but only when Er-Mûrazôr was speaking.

The young emissary said, "It's all in the letter. You captured the Haven using deceit, and you spent more than the funds you were allocated to build the city."

"I don't understand. Why are those important now?"

Atanamir shifted in his chair. "Father thinks you've gotten to powerful too quickly. You don't obey him as you used to, and he's no longer sure of your loyalty."

The room lurched. He clutched the sides of his head.

"Please, come with me to the barge. Right now. Once we're there, we'll send for your things."

Er-Mûrazôr lifted his chin and defiance. Once he set foot on the barge, he wouldn't be allowed to leave.

"Tindomul, this is serious. Will you step down of your own free will?" Atanamir's eyes were pleading.

"I will not." Er-Mûrazôr crushed the pages in his fist, and bits of wax clattered to the paving stones.

The hawk-faced man leaned forward. "In that case, the gloves come off." His voice was like gravel. Until then, he'd been so quiet, Er-Mûrazôr had forgotten he was there.

Hawk-face pulled a folded sheet of parchment from his tunic.

"I'd rather not use this, but I will if you make me." He leaned back, his eyes hooded as if he were enjoying this.

"Is that an arrest warrant?" asked Er-Mûrazôr.

"Not quite. It's a writ of transportation. You won't be clapped in irons. You'll be given time to pack, and you'll have an opportunity to say farewell to your people and leave instructions for your steward, but you are getting on that ship."

"I won't."

"You can't escape. Twenty-five warships rest at anchor in the harbor, each under your brother's command. I believe we have three men for every one in your garrison."

Er-Mûrazôr rose to his feet, his hand on the hilt of his sword. "I'll see you in hell." His footsteps rang against the flagstones and echoed from the vaulted ceiling. The double doors were twenty paces away.

"Tindomul!" His brother's chair scraped against the flagstones.

The doors lay just ahead.

"Tindomul, wait!"

"Let him go," the emissary urged. "Give him time to calm down."

The rough wood left splinters in his palms as he shoved them apart, and he walked into the blinding sunlight, blinking hard.


	11. Chapter 21 - The Warrant

**The Warrant**

Er-Mûrazôr's temper was a force of nature, a terrible thing. He shouldn't be around people right now.

He felt the need to stride along one street and then another until he had lost himself, but a city of less than a hundred houses doesn't offer much more than a main square and a couple of unpaved streets. Even if he circumnavigated the whole city outside the wall, he would only have burned off ten minutes, not enough time to calm down.

Instead, he found one of the sets of stairs leading to the top of the city wall. No wildflowers or lichen grew on them, and they still smelled of stone dust. At home, the stones would it been as smooth and as perfectly fitted together as a carpenter's dovetailed joints, but here, every stone block showed the mark of the chisel, colonial and provincial-looking.

He walked on the wide top of the wall, above roofs and gardens and pens for the animals, until the vast expanse of the sea opened up before him. The wind stirred, carrying the smell of salt, ancient and calming. It chilled him where his clothes stuck to his skin, and cooled his temper as well.

The island of Númenor lay three days' sail to the west, faster if the wind was over the stern as it was on the outbound trip. Miles of sand and shrub separated Umbar from the coast, but a finger of water extended inland, the Haven of Umbar. At its tip lay the only deep-water harbor anywhere along the coast. The harbor was a forest of masts. The tide was out, exposing vast expanses of mud. Seabirds wheeled overhead, their cries sounded lonelier than usual and more bitter.

The Fleet, the might of Númenor, filled the inlet from one cliff to the opposite. The walled city held the high ground, but Hawk Face was right, they outnumbered him three to one.

The flagship of Umbar's fleet, the ship he usually captained, rocked the surge in the center of the harbor. He'd ordered it moved to let the Royal Barge have a place of honor the pier.

He could reach the flagship with any small boat. He would gather a small party of sailors, board it, and on the turn of tide, they'd raise anchor and let the tide carry them out to sea. The currents were strong, they'd depart the inlet by midnight. But the warships of the fleet stood between him and the open ocean. Intentionally or not, they were arranged in such a way that it would be impossible to slip past them.

At the pier, the royal barge sat beside tall pilings encrusted with barnacles, its gangway angled sharply down. He might walk that ramp, but not just yet. No ships were going anywhere into the tide turned, six or seven hours from now. Time, time was everything.

He couldn't fight, he couldn't escape, but he might be able to negotiate.

The sun hung above the horizon. It would be dark soon. No lights burned in the Royal Barge, its occupants must still be in the Guild Hall where he'd seen the last.

He would negotiate a delay. Anything could happen in a day, a week. He was an able general, he might get a command. He might get a post building another city over another harbor. Anything could happen.

He retraced his steps along the top of the wall to the street. He would find his brother and his brother's retainers, as soon as he washed his face and changed clothes.

He reached the center of the city. His house stood directly across the square. Two soldiers flanked his door, several more seemed to be taking instructions from Hawk Face, who had something white in his hand and was waving it for emphasis. More soldiers appeared from around the back.

Er-Mûrazôr drew back into the alley and flattened himself against the wall. None of them had been looking in his direction. No one shouted, and no one ran after him.

His fingers brushed against the purse of gold coins hanging from his belt. He hadn't thought of it since he'd sold the land at midday.

Leave. Just walk away.

He had money. He was armed, the great two-handed sword hung at his hip. He had a horse, and in the saddlebag, food and a map.

None of the men seem to be looking in his direction. Er-Mûrazôr took a step further back into the alley, and another step, taking care that his feet didn't crunch in the gravel. He would walk along the main street, and through the eastern gate, and out. He would stop just long enough to collect Magic, and saddle him.

He would have to hurry. When the upper rim of the sun disappeared into the sea, the gates would be sealed. Already the city lay in the shadows of its own walls. He moved as quickly as he could without breaking into a run.

The Gate stood wide open. Beyond, the desert stretched, endless and unexplored.

Soldiers flanked the stone archway. Er-Mûrazôr's hand dropped to the hilt of his sword. Their tabards were faded. He recognized them as two of his own men, Hagrith and Luthain, who were often stationed at the Desert Gate. With any luck, they didn't know their commander had just been removed as Captain of the Haven.

The stables stood beside the Gate. They were little more than a thatched roof on poles leaning against the city wall, with a stone trough in front. Straw lay on the ground in front of the door, and the smell of horses was overpowering.

"We're getting ready to close the gates, Captain" said Luthain.

"Can you give me a few minutes? I'm running late."

"You know the law as well as I do, sir."

Er-Mûrazôr checked the street for pursuers, then slipped inside. The stable was deserted, the grooms must be away at their dinner. Four or five horses looked up at him. Magic was in the second stall from the door, and his saddle, blanket, and tack were draped over the rail of the stall.

Magic accepted the bridle easily for once, but in his haste, Er-Mûrazôr's fingers fumbled with the buckles. He lifted the saddle onto the horse's back and tossed the girth across it, then retrieved the saddlebag and carried it over his arm.

He led Magic outside by the reins. The water trough was right by the door. Bits of straw floated on the surface. Magic dunked his nose in the cloudy water and drank. The water skin was half-full. No, there wasn't time. And he was outdoors, the longer he stood out here, the more he risked being seen.

In the distance, the watchtower bell pealed the change of watch, and the last of the sun. Each of the soldiers grabbed one of the massive doors and pulled on it until it began to move.

Er-Mûrazôr yanked on Magic's reins, but the stallion hadn't finished drinking. He tossed his head and yanked right back. He had to half-drag the stubborn animal under the stone archway and through the narrowing gap.


	12. Chapter 22 - Throught the Desert

**Through The Desert**

Sand and thorn bushes and loose rocks stretched away in all directions until they disappeared in the fading light. The Haven of Umbar was a new city, no roads yet led away from her gates.

Behind him, the city gates slammed shut. Prince Er-Mûrazôr spun around.

 _This can't be happening._

A thud shook the massive timbers, and a scraping sound revealed the heavy bar had just been dropped into its bracket. By custom, the gates would remain sealed till morning, and no man's order, not even his own, could open them.

The sun had disappeared beneath the sea, but towering clouds to the west glowed golden in the last light of day. Below them, the city walls stood black against the sky.

 _It didn't have to end like this._

Tomorrow at first light, the gates would open, and he could go back and apologize. He would ask them to change their minds and this whole misunderstanding would blow over.

Not likely. "You are removed as Captain of the Haven" left little room for interpretation.

Magic tossed his head and yanked on the bridle. The saddle perched on his back threatened to slide off. Er-Mûrazôr steadied it with his hand.

This was no longer his home. He should leave.

No outlines of helms or spears interrupted the smooth line on top of the wall. As far as he could tell, he was unobserved. With clumsy hands, he stripped off the silver-green robe, then shoved it in the saddlebag on top of the food he'd packed for the hunting trip that morning, dried fruit and waybread. It should last for two or three days, more if he was careful.

The shirt he'd worn hunting flapped against his legs. He belted it around the waist, the purse of gold coins heavy at his side, his dagger where he could reach it easily. Then he strapped his sword belt around his hips and tightened Magic's girth.

A courtier had gifted him the dark-colored stallion the first time he'd used magic to kindle a fire. The name "Magic" embarrassed him, but he wouldn't have changed a horse's name any more than he'd have changed the name of a ship.

It pained him to be reminded of his first, clumsy attempt at fire starting, but there was no polite way to refuse the gift, and Magic was one of those rare horses large enough for a man of his height.

It was time to go. He gathered the reins and swung into the saddle. To the east, streaks of cloud glowed orange and red against the deepening twilight, darker but richer then the golden sunset behind him. He kicked Magic to a trot.

Anger drove him to push the stallion harder than was wise, and more than once, the horse stumbled over rocks or gullies invisible in the fading light. Er-Mûrazôr's pulse hammered.

 _Nobody speaks to me like that._

His own father had called his actions dishonorable and sent an underling to spy on him. The minion reported that Er-Mûrazôr didn't follow directions, and that he was willful and insubordinate. This came as a surprise to anyone?

And then they'd taken the Haven away from him. The harbor, and the walled city protecting it, which he'd built from nothing,

 _They robbed me._ Oddly, the insults stung more keenly than the loss of his land and titles.

He spurred the horse on, each stride putting distance between himself and the walled city that had once been his. He had no idea where he was going. Away. Away from scrutiny and false accusations and the soldiers who'd encircled his house.

The desert floor rose and fell like waves of the ocean, getting larger the further he traveled form the coast. He hardly noticed his surrounding, his thoughts were fixed on the official letter that, like the swing of an axe, had brought his tenure to an end.

He climbed a small hill, and then another. At the crest of the ridge, he twitched the reins, and Magic halted. It wasn't quite dark. He would take one last look, and then move on. But behind him, there was only desert. The walled city, and the ocean beyond, it were hidden behind the hill.

He would go back, just far enough to get that last look. He heeled Magic's flanks and the big stallion took a step back the way they'd come. In a moment, the ocean would come into view, and beyond the next ridge, the city.

 _What have I done?_

Everything he owned, and every person he cared about, was back there. He heeled Magic's flanks, and the big stallion took a step. He felt as if he were watching himself from a great distance.

It wouldn't be the first time he'd lost his temper and stormed out. Every other time, he'd always come back after he'd had a chance to calm down. The gates would open at first light, and his brother would be glad to see him. If he could have an hour alone with Atanamir, just the two of them with no clerks are scribes or emissaries, they could sort this out together. He could negotiate for more time. He could offer to stay on as his brother's assistant. He could return to Númenor and plead his case in person.

He jerked on the reins, forcing the animal to a halt.

It didn't matter. All paths led to the same end. Whatever he did, he would lose the Haven. Everything had been decided long ago, before he knew what was going on. The accusations against him, that his construction plans were too ambitious, that he'd spent too much on materials, that he'd taken too long to finish the walls, were trivia. They weren't why he'd been removed from his post, they were how.

He wheeled Magic around and kicked him forward, towards the blue-purple sky in the east.

When it got too dark to ride any further, he tied Magic's halter to a stunted shrub and lay down wrapped in his cloak and a soft hollow of sand above a dry wash. Normally he wouldn't camp in a wash because of the danger from flash flooding, but there wouldn't be a hard rain for at least half a year.

The coastal fogs of the Haven were far behind, as were the tightly-clustered houses that glowed with yellow lamplight. From the Haven, the familiar constellations stood out in sharp relief against a black sky. But in the desert, like at sea, even the Sickle was hard to make out at first, the seven bright stars that defined it lost among countless points of light.

A rock poked him in the shoulder, and he moved to avoid it. The sand was full of stinging insects which found their way into the neck of his clothing. He lay away and studied the sky. The Sickle swung around the lodestar, and the other stars wheeled with it. He tried to think of anything he'd done as Captain of the Haven that might have led to his removal: every act of independence, every sarcastic remark, every time he'd stood up for himself.

A falling star streaked across the sky and then winked out. An omen, but he couldn't guess what it meant.

Before first light, he gave up trying to sleep. It was impossible to travel when the sun was at its highest. He would cover as much distance as he could before the brutal heat of the day made the sand so hot it felt cold.

By midmorning, his water skin was flat. It felt moist inside, but when he turned it upside down, it only gave up a few drops.

The wind picked up, and it carried the scent of water. Gusts of fine sand swirled around Magic's legs. On the horizon, a dune so tall it blocked the sky bore down on the road like a rogue wave. Here and there, short sections had already disappeared under fingers of sand.

He rounded the base of the dune, and the smell of water grew stronger. Between ridges of sand a hundred feet high lay a deep lake, a fissure in the earth, its depths unplumbed. Even its edges were dark blue-green.

It was approaching noon. His shadow was foreshortened, almost nonexistent. A dozen or so houses were clustered around the lake. Most people would be inside taking shelter from the midday heat, but the animals should still be outdoors. Yet no mules brayed, no chickens cackled or scratched in the dirt.

Palms encircling the lake, and the air in the shade beneath them was cool and damp. Er-Mûrazôr let Magic step into the shallows, then dropped to his knees and drank the cold, pure spring water from cupped hands.

The wind stirred, carrying wisps of sand from the crest of the dune. Tiny grains shimmered down its side as the wall of sand moved imperceptibly closer. Already, the dune had begun to swallow some of the trees. Here and there, the upper half of a palm poked above the sand, and in places, only the fronds showed, unexpectedly healthy and green.

Further back in the dune, the corners of roofs poked above the sand, their red clay tiles mostly intact. This had been a village once. A dozen families had lived here, and now they were gone.

He left Magic tethered in the shade and went to investigate. The base of the dune had wrapped itself around the nearest mudbrick house. In back, the rear wall had been completely buried, and the dune had started to cover the roof. He grabbed a fistful and let it run between his fingers, softer than beach sand, and finer grained.

The door of the house stood open, trapped in a drift that reached halfway to the windows. The face of an animal had been carved below the roof peak, and the faded remains of paint showed where a design of leaves and flowers had been.

Inside, the sand was almost as deep. He crouched to avoid the low beams and moved carefully through the shallow space. A child's tin cup sat forgotten on a shelf, and the far corner of the room smelled of piss.

He leaned against the wall, utterly weary, sliding down until he was sitting in the sand. He'd left so suddenly, there hadn't been time to write any letters, he hadn't had a chance to say goodbye.

Long purple shadows stretched from the oasis to the half-buried house. He came to himself with a start. He stood up, brushed off the sand, and went to check on Magic. He watches as the horse drank his fill, then drank as much as he could and filled the water skin.

The sun was low, it was time to move on. He tightened the girth and climbed into the saddle, and returned to the road. The wind picked up, blowing stinging sand in his face. He blinked hard.

-o-o-o-o-o-

The desert pavement, the rocks and pebbles left where the sand blown away, stretched out before him, leaving a surface that was easy for horses to walk on. To the east, the moon hung in the daytime sky, not yet full. The shadows on its face were the color of the sky behind it, a pale silver blue. It looked thin-sliced to the point of being transparent.

The road shimmered as if submerged in puddles of water. The image broke into parts and reformed, and when he got closer, he could make out a number of men on horseback. He stepped off the road and watched. There were six of them, including a slender youth. They were leading at least a dozen mules, baggage piled high on their backs. They looked more like merchants than bandits or tribal warriors.

Normally Er-Mûrazôr preferred his own company to that of others, but suddenly, the desire to be around others was as intense as thirst.

"Hullo!" Er-Mûrazôr called out.

They spun around and drew daggers. The boy cried out in fear. Er-Mûrazôr made an effort not to touch the hilt of his own sword, although he turned to make sure they could see it.

"You're traveling richly burdened but lightly protected. If you desire it, I will ride with you," Er-Mûrazôr said.

"We haven't had any trouble on the road so far," said the oldest among them, apparently their leader.

Er-Mûrazôr hadn't, either. "Just because you haven't seen any troublemakers doesn't mean they aren't there."

"How do we know we can trust him?" whispered his companion.

"We don't, but he has an educated voice," said the older man.

After some haggling, they agreed to share their food and water. In exchange, Er-Mûrazôr would escort them to the capital of Haradwaith, two days distant.

All afternoon, Er-Mûrazôr rode in front of the caravan, his hand on the hilt of his sword, scanning the road for trouble. As far as he could tell, the only real danger was of overheating and tipping out of the saddle, unconscious.

"Well, no wonder you're suffering, with that blue-black hair of yours, and mounted on a dark bay, no less. Here, put this on." Rafiq, their leader, tossed him a pale cloth, fringed and knotted at the corners. Er-Mûrazôr draped the coarse cotton fabric over his head and let it hang around him. The fringes got in his eyes, but the shade made up for it.

The sun went down, but the memory of the heat of the day stayed on in boulders and darker stretches of ground. Before full darkness fell, silhouettes of palm fronds appeared in the east against the indigo sky. The air stirred, and carried the scent of water.

"That's the oasis on this trip, lads. Tomorrow, we'll have lodgings in the Capital," said Rafiq.

A dense growth of palm trees clustered around a low circular wall. A long wooden boom pivoted on a triangular frame, a bucket on one end, a counterweighting stone on the other.

Er-Mûrazôr was beyond thirsty. His lips were swollen and cracked from breathing through his mouth. He dropped to the ground, his legs trembling.

Leading Magic by the reins, he walked to the edge of the well and leaned over the stone rim. His reflection seemed very far away. Oily scum covered much of the water's surface, and thick mats of algae clung to the stone walls. Now and again, a bubble broke the oily surface.

The burly man called Dhaki dipped the boom in the bucket splashed into the well. The smell rose like a cloud, a combination of rotten eggs and mildew. Bilge water. Er-Mûrazôr never thought he'd actually want to drink it.

Dhaki drew up pail after pail of fetid water and spilled it into the stone trough for the animals. Er-Mûrazôr accepted the loan of a drinking horn and scooped stagnant water from the trough. He raised it to his mouth and held his breath against the smell. The water was as warm as his own body, and stale, but he drank and couldn't stop.

Once the animals were watered and unharnessed, Er-Mûrazôr helped the merchants gather firewood, the resinous branches from the thorny shrubs that seemed to grow everywhere. He arranged bits of kindling in a small tent and stuffed dry palm fronds beneath them. Looking up to see that he was unobserved, he chanted the words of the fire starting spell. Wisps of smoke rose from the dried leaves, and one of the little sticks caught. One of the merchants came back with more twigs to add to the fire. Soon, the blaze was large enough to cook on, and to sit around after dark.

They finished eating, and Er-Mûrazôr drew a little bit away, looking back at the campfire. Until recently, he'd always belonged somewhere, he'd always known what he was supposed to be doing. But with his anchor rope cut, he couldn't seem to get his bearings.

Occasionally the fire was eclipsed by the form of someone walking in front of it. Just beyond the circle of light from the campfire, a score of horses and mules were hobbled or tethered to the palm trees with baggage lay piled up beside them. Something popped in the fire, and an ember floated high in the air. The sound of voices reached him, and occasionally, laughter.

They left the oasis before first light, riding toward the capital of Haradwaith. Mostly they spoke of the price they would get for their honey and the luxuries and entertainments city had to offer.

Not all the men belonged to the merchant's party. The youth, whose name was Travaran, was a scholar looking forward to meeting, or at least seeing, the famed court astrologer who served the Sultan.

"He's giving a lecture, and I'm going to the capital to hear it." The young scholar could barely contain his excitement.

Er-Mûrazôr rode ahead of them, scanning the road for trouble, but absorbing every word.

"He reads the stars for signs of war or crop failure. He can even learn a man's character from the movement of planets through the constellations," said the young scholar.

Er-Mûrazôr used the stars to find his way at sea. He was never lost as long as he could see the night sky, but sometime it was hidden behind clouds or rain. He'd pay gold for an enchantment that let him sense direction when he was fogged in.

Travaran was still talking. "Astrologers do more than read the stars. They're learned in the ways of magic, even if they don't often speak of it. Any astrologer can predict the weather, interpret dreams, or find things that are lost."

As a general, what would he do with magic on the battlefield. Foretell the outcome of a battle before it began? Heal wounds? Draw lightning from the clouds and strike the enemy? Er-Mûrazôr felt a flash of resentment. He should be the one studying sorcery.

"Can your magician summon storms?" asked Er-Mûrazôr.

"I imagine so, that's pretty basic," said Travaran.

And could a magician use a spell to extend his own life? If Er-Mûrazôr could bring that knowledge back to Númenor, every one of his people would profit from it. Sadness gripped him. Númenor was no longer his home.

"How does one get to meet him?" asked Er-Mûrazôr.

"Anyone with the price of admission can hear him speak," said Travaran.

Over the crest of the dune, the spires the desert capital rose as if from out of the sand. Miniature gold domes perched on top of long fingers of stone.

"Let's keep going lads, we can reach the city by nightfall. Let's not get caught out here after dark," Rafiq urged.

The path was becoming an actual road, a fixed width and a little lower than the rocky ground on either side, and mercifully free of thorn bushes. In the distance, the air shivered like water, black and wavering, but the air smelled dry and dusty.

The horses' hooves clicked against stones on the road. Er-Mûrazôr pushed back the nodded headscarf he'd taken to wearing in imitation of the merchants and took a pull from his water skin, which was close to empty. Magic's flanks were crusted white with salt from dried sweat, but there was no watering hole between the oasis they'd left before first light, hours ago, and the desert capital before them.

Dusk came early. The sun blocked by the tall dunes behind them, and finally they could see the walls of the city. Mud brick, crenelated, each tooth a zigzag pattern, so unlike the smooth surface of the walled city at home. The temperature dropped, mercifully, and the breeze picked up a little. His clothes were soaked with sweat, and the breeze felt surprisingly cold. It wasn't yet dark, the gates of the city still stood open.

"Hello Nabeeh, well met!" said the merchant to one of the sentries. He produced a coin and pressed it into the sentry's hand, which the man pocketed discretely.

"Haven't seen you in a couple of weeks. But I guess that's what you'd expect of a merchant who travels the far corners."

Er-Mûrazôr stayed with the caravan as they made their way to the Inn where they always stayed, although he opted to sleep in the stable to preserve his money. He did accept a meal with them in the common room, and an invitation to breakfast as well.

After breakfast, the merchants talked about who they hoped to see at the Guildhall, and the thousand and one preparations for Market Day. Er-Mûrazôr feigned listening, although his thoughts were filled with the squares of sunlight on the floor, the voice of the emissary, the fatal document shoved in front of him which he'd crumpled and torn to shreds.

Travaran got up to go. "I hate to leave you early, but I need to get in line to go hear Gulon, the Court Astrologer. He gives his lectures in a huge audience hall, but last time I almost didn't get in."

The young scholar got up from the table. Er-Mûrazôr got up, too.

"If you don't mind, I'd like to come with you."


	13. Chapter 23 - The Lecturer

**The Lecture**

Er-Mûrazôr followed Travaran through the marketplace to an arched gateway in a tall white wall. Inside the walls, the air smelled of roses and mint.

They passed through a central courtyard. Water cascaded over the sides of a fountain, filling the plaza with the sound of water on stone. The wind shifted, and cold spray brushed his face.

The young scholar stopped and made a sweeping gesture. "These are the grounds of the Sultan's palace. It's not just one building, it's a whole compound."

They stopped in front of one of the larger buildings. The roof peak towered three or four stories above the cobblestones, and the doors were as tall as two men.

Beside the entrance, a line had formed ten deep in front of a trestle table. A clerk bent over a huge ledger book, scribbling furiously. He spoke to the man at the head of the line, then dropped it into an iron-bound box.

Travaran joined the line, and Er-Mûrazôr stood with him. When they reached the front of the line, Travaran spoke to the clerk. "Can I still get in? You haven't sold out, have you?" He leaned forward anxiously.

"Today's lecture is sold out, but you can still get in if you buy a handful of tokens for the next ten lectures. You can get them for one gold coin."

Travaran hesitated. "That's pretty steep. The fees have gone up since last year."

"Master Gulon is a famous speaker. You're lucky you got in at all," said the clerk.

Travaran handed over a gold coin, and the clerk added his name to the list.

Er-Mûrazôr considered how badly he wanted this. He had a handful of gold coins, but no way to obtain more once they ran out. On the other hand, there were so many things he wanted to learn: how to stay oriented in the fog, read minds, and add years to his life. The court astrologer at Armenelos didn't know how to do those things. If Master Gulon could, it would be worth the expense. He hesitated, then handed over a gold coin to secure his own admission.

A crush of people had filed into a hall at least a hundred paces long. High overhead, the vaulted stonework reflected the muffled roar.

Er-Mûrazôr found a place against the back wall. He made himself comfortable and looked around. A wooden stage had been raised at the front of the room, loose planks laid over a makeshift structure. Behind it hung a painted canvas, dark blue, showing a map of the stars. The constellations had been sketched around them in white chalk, stylized drawings of heroes, beasts, and monsters.

As a mariner, Er-Mûrazôr navigated by the stars. He knew the constellations as well as he knew the corridors of the palace where he grew up, but he couldn't use them tell the future.

The stones were cold against his back. From his vantage point at the back of the room, he could observe the people who'd paid to be here. Mostly they were young, students and apprentices just starting their careers, but here and there were men of middle years, and even a few with white hair.

There was a hush, and a man of middle years or more took the stage. Although it had probably been a long time since he'd been able to see his own feet, he still stood upright and had a full head of silver hair.

"I am Gulon, master practitioner of the craft of magic and Court Astrologer for Haradwaith." The hall rang with applause. "I read the future in the stars and warn the Sultan of all things that could affect his kingdom, like crop failure or the advent of war."

Er- Mûrazôr would give almost anything to be able to foretell the outcome of a battle before it happened. He leaned forward, straining to hear every word. Master Gulon spoke of the celestial sphere and the great dome of the heavens. He named the wanderers that moved across it, and described what it meant when they rested in certain houses of the constellations.

"Astrology is High Magic, which takes years of study. The stars yield up their secrets only to the most learned. And unfortunately, the ancient texts are in languages no longer.

"But you don't need to learn High Magic to become a practitioner. There's something called practical magic, or as it's more commonly called, kitchen magic. It includes the spells used to kindle a fire, open a lock, or conceal something you want to hide. You can learn these spells in an afternoon and use them later the very same day."

A murmur ran through the crowd. Er- Mûrazôr found himself getting caught up in the excitement. He already knew a little magic, he'd learned the fire-starting spell from the court astrologer in Númenor. He was ready for more.

Master Gulon raised his arms. "These are spells anyone in this room can do, if you're willing to memorize the words, and if you say them exactly right." The old magician scanned the crowd. "Now, who wants to be a magician?"

Men cried out, "Huzzah, huzzah," their raised arms as numerous and densely-packed as the spears of soldiers. Er-Mûrazôr's arm shot up with the others.

"And who already practices magic?" Er-Mûrazôr's hand shot up again. He'd kindled fire, and he'd spoken with the dead. That surely counted.

People in the crowd turned to stare at him. "It appears we already have a practitioner among us," said Master Gulon. Er-Mûrazôr yanked his arm down. His face burned.

Gulon raised a hand for silence. "The material we'll cover is easy to master, and I'm sure you'll agree, things you can use every day. A year from now, you'll be able to predict the weather, interpret dreams, and start a fire without flint and steel. Now, this is absolutely key. Anyone in this room can do magic, but you must use an authentic spell, and you must say the words exactly right."

Like the fire-starting spell he'd learned in Númenor. It had to be spoken just so, or it wouldn't work. Someone in the middle of the crowd shouted, "Why do we have to memorize and recite? Can't we learn the basic principles, then try things out and see how they work?"

Master Gulon froze in mid-gesture. "Everything there is to know about magic is already known, assuming you have the wit to understand it."

The questioner hung his head, then elbowed his way through the crowd. Sunlight blazed from the back of the room, then dimmed when the door slammed.

Master Gulon watched him go. "Please, all of you who wish to practice magic, follow the instructions exactly. Don't be like Atelic, the court physician, who thought he could figure it out by himself. He went exploring and ventured into darker places than anyone ought to go."

The court astrologer reverted to his former cheery self. "Practical magic is for the ordinary, everyday things you might want to do, but magic makes them easier.

For example, suppose you're lighting the kitchen fire in the hearth one morning. You have to strike a spark with flint and steel into a handful of tinder. There you are, kneeling on a cold hearth and blowing on a wisp of smoke until you're fainting.

"Think of how much easier it would be to speak a few words and watch the flames leap up from the twigs and catch the log. You don't even have to kneel. When you're my age, that starts to matter."

What if he could ride through a conquered village, setting thatched roofs ablaze with a word and a gesture. Er-Mûrazôr grinned. He'd love to be able to do that. He'd just need to do his fire-starting spell with a faster set-up and aim it more precisely.

Master Gulon surveyed the crowd. "Who among you farms the land? Suppose it hasn't rained in a week. You walk into your wheat field, and the leaves hanging limp and yellow around the edges. There are a few clouds in the sky, but the sun remains unrelentingly bright and cheerful. What if you could sing a chant to turn puffy white clouds dark, and make them release a torrent of rain on your fields?"

Would the same spell also let him release a bolt of lightning into the midst of the opposing ranks? It would terrify the enemy, and his own captains would be awestruck. Whatever it cost, he wanted this.

When Er- Mûrazôr returned from the midday break, servants were assembling tables on the stage and setting up apparatus, apparently in apparently in preparation for a demonstration of the magical arts.

Students filled back into the hall. When it was full, Master Gulon returned to the stage. "Who wants to see some magic?" He looked over the upturned faces and smiled. The audience applauded.

"Almost everyone starts with fire," Gulon said.

He stood before an unlit candle. He spoke an incantation and the wick burst into flame. Er-Mûrazôr felt proud that he could already do that.

"Let's try levitation." Master Gulon held up a small stone and opened his hand. The stone hung in the air. All around him, people gasped. "Now, who'd like to do some magic themselves?" Cheers arose from the crowd. "We're going to cast a spell for good luck, sometimes called a protection charm. It prevents accidents or misfortune."

 _How do you know if it worked? Because the accident doesn't happen?_ Er- Mûrazôr leaned against the wall with his arms crossed, his face carefully neutral.

Master Gulon spoke the words of the spell, and the students recited them until they knew them by heart.

"Try it when you go home tonight. Then next lecture, when I ask who among you has practiced magic, you can all raise your hands."

Er-Mûrazôr sighed. It appeared that he'd enrolled himself in a very expensive class for beginners.

Master Gulon bowed, and the hall rang with a final round of applause.

The great doors in the back of the hall were thrown open and sunlight streamed into the darkened space. Er-Mûrazôr joined the stream of people inching towards the doors.

"Attention. Your attention, please." The clerk who'd collected their admissions fees had taken the stage and was banging on the podium with a pointer.

"Master Gulon is offering private lessons for advanced students on a first-come, first-served basis. Register at the table outside where you signed in this morning." His message delivered, the little clerk disappeared from the stage.

Er-Mûrazôr was determined to sign up. He elbowed his way through the crowd but got stuck behind three or four people deep in conversation.

"Wasn't he wonderful? That floating pebble made me shiver."

"I'll be a real practitioner by tonight, if I can work that protection charm."

Er-Mûrazôr rolled his eyes.

The crowd flowed around him. He tried to move sideways, but he was unwilling to shove his way free. He remained trapped behind the discussion group, shifting from foot to foot with impatience.

Finally the crowd thinned and he reached the registration table. People crowded around it two-deep.

The clerk was saying, "It's a two-hour lesson covering more advanced topics than Master Gulon teaches in the larger lectures. And the lesson will be hands-on. By the time you leave, you've be able to light a fire with words alone."

Er-Mûrazôr wormed through the crowd, trying to reach the table before the private lessons sold out. Travaran reached the front of the line before Er-Mûrazôr. "What does it cost?" asked the young scholar.

"One gold coin for a two-hour session."

Er-Mûrazôr gasped. It was an enormous fee for a few hours of instruction. He stepped away from the table and put away his purse.

Travaran tapped his foot, frowning. In the end, he surrendered a gold coin, and his name was entered on the list. Er-Mûrazôr narrowed his eyes and turned away. He set the idea of private lessons aside and decided to focus on the large lectures.

Over the course of the next several weeks, Er-Mûrazôr attended every lecture that wasn't sold out, to the point that some of the material was starting to repeat. From his place at the back of the crowded hall, he'd learned a great deal about star charts, rain making, and invisibility, and he'd seen a good deal of magic demonstrated.

However, after eight lectures, Er-Mûrazôr could no more find north in the fog than he could read the mind of another. The lectures didn't teach magic, they taught _about_ magic. Er-Mûrazôr slapped his forehead. No one would become a great sorcerer by taking these classes. Master Gulon wasn't training practitioners, he was training dilettantes.

Master Gulon gave lectures every second or third day. Between lectures, Er-Mûrazôr explored the city or went riding outside the city walls. Magic needed the exercise, and Er-Mûrazôr found that when he was doing normal things, he felt like himself.

Late in the afternoon after a day of exploring the desert outside the city, Er-Mûrazôr returned to the Boar's Head Inn. He found Travaran and Ferian, one of the other advanced students in the common room, sitting around a table and talking loudly. Er-Mûrazôr pulled up a chair and joined them.

Travaran, who was talking with his hands, knocked over a clay jug holding a candle, fortunately unlit at this time of day. "Private lessons are worth every farthing! Wasn't that great how Master Gulon kindled fire with a chant this morning. And then he taught us to do it, too. Watch this." He held up the candle stub and sang the words of a spell. After several tries, a flame flickered above the wick.

"Let me try." Er-Mûrazôr took the candle from him and blew out the flame. He spoke the words of the spell he learned from the astrologer in Númenor. The wick burst into flame.

"Can you do this?" Travaran snuffed the candle and laid it on the table. He took a moment to collect himself, then spoke rhythmic syllables in a deep voice. The candle stub lay motionless. He tried twice more, and finally got it to lift a few inches above the table. It hung in the air for a moment before it fell. "That wasn't perfect, but you get the idea."

Er-Mûrazôr leaned forward, transfixed. His lips moving silently as he repeated the words of the spell, trying to commit them to memory.

"Great levitation spell, oh gifted one. Now bow to the master." Ferian went through the same preparations and sang the same chant. The candle rose to eye level and hung there, rocking like a ship at anchor. A barmaid walked by. Ferian's eyes locked on her, and the candle dropped and hit the table with a thud.

"What, you don't find her attractive?" asked Travaran.

Er-Mûrazôr scowled at them and hoped they couldn't see him blushing. He held out his hand. "Give me the candle. I want to try."

He sang the words. He thought he had them exactly right, but the candle stub remained on the table, unmoving. On what must have been his tenth try, he went through the mental preparations as before and willed candle stub to float. It seemed to vibrate, and then it twitched slightly, like a dying mouse.

"Nice, except you forgot to say the spell," said Travaran

For the next half hour, Travaran and Ferian drilled him in the gestures and intonations, but nothing helped. The candle stub lay on the table, motionless.

"The possibility exists that Master Gulon knows how to teach, and we don't," said Travaran.


	14. Chapter 24 - Private Lessons

**Private Lessons**

Er-Mûrazôr dunked his shirt in the washbasin and lifted the dripping garment, then dunked it again. Even by the light of a single candle, it was obvious the water was too grey to do any good. He twisted the fabric until the trickle turned to drips, then shook it out and draped it over a rafter that cut through the slant-ceilinged room.

He owned exactly one shirt, which he wore every day. The cuffs were beginning to fray, and threads hung from the edges of the sleeves. And when his shirt was drying on the rafter, he had to sleep in his skin. It was immodest, and his shoulders got cold.

He tipped the basin of grey water out the tiny window, He refilled it from the pitcher beneath the washstand and bent over to wash his hair. He didn't have money, cleanliness was his only luxury.

The next morning, he browsed through the stalls and tents in the marketplace near the city gates. A number of the booths displayed the light cotton clothing the local people wore, most of it in vivid colors and heavily embroidered.

He sifted through the folded stacks and found something plain white and similar in cut to what he'd wore at home. Silk would have been better, it was what he was used to, but it wouldn't last as well. As he was paying the merchant, he dug through his purse for his last large copper coin, then realized he'd already spent it. He paid for the purchase with a handful of coppers instead.

With nothing to do for the rest of the day, he ducked into a coffee shop. The aroma was stronger than at home, and it came in more varieties. His eyes adjusted, and he found a private corner at the back. The serving maid brought him a miniature cup, steaming hot, with as much rich tasting sludge as liquid. He paid her with a copper farthing.

After she left, he spilled his remaining coins into his hand. His room was paid through the end of the week, but he barely had enough for food.

Several doors from the coffee shop was a merchant who bought and sold second-had goods. A man behind the counter looked up. His eyes were hard, like one accustomed to dealing with people forced to sell the thing they thought they'd never part with.

Er-Mûrazôr laid his dagger on the counter. It had been expensive and was finely made, although he used it as an all-purpose utility knife.

"What would you give me for this?" He relaxed his body and spoke slowly, trying to look like someone who wasn't desperate.

The man turned it over in his hands. "Five coppers."

"Another day." Er-Mûrazôr replaced the dagger in his belt and turned toward the door.

The man called after him, "Come back tomorrow. I'll give you four coppers for it."

-o-o-o-o-o-

At the end of the week, Er-Mûrazôr returned home from a particularly long lecture on the movement of the wanders through the celestial sphere. When he reached the Boar's Head Inn, thinking only of supper and bed, he encountered a wall of noise that seemed to explode from the common room.

He paused near the doorway, breathing in the smell of freshly-baked bread.

Through a veil of smoke, it appeared that every table in the room was filled. Today was the day laborers and tradesmen were paid It appeared that every one of them in the city was here, celebrating with an evening out. In addition, a large caravan must have arrived earlier in the day, because a group of turbaned merchants with their servants and bodyguards had claimed the largest table.

Something hit the floor a crash, followed by boos and catcalls. A boy bent to collect the overturned plates and scrape the food from the bright-colored tiles. Er-Mûrazôr was tired. He wasn't in the mood for crowding and commotion. He considered going straight to his room, but he was starving.

He dodged behind people who were standing and holding their plates in their hands and found a vacant space at a four-man table, wide enough to accommodate his large frame. He squeezed between two tradesmen just before someone else claimed the spot.

Conversation with strangers was exhausting for him. He would have preferred a quiet corner by himself, but failing that, he looked off in the distance and retreated into his own thoughts. The barmaid offered him wine but he waved her off. He was saving his last coin for a piece of bread.

The others at the table mentioned they were already on their second round but still waiting for the barmaid to bring their suppers. She brought a bowl of rice and skewers of lamb to next table.

The landlord loomed over him and placed a hand on his shoulder. "Master Tindomul, seeing as it's the end of the week, could I trouble you for the rent?"

Er-Mûrazôr stiffened. "Can you wait a day or two? And I'll need to take meals on credit until then."

The man frowned. "One day for the rent. No credit."

The other men at the table stared openly. Embarrassed, he shoved back his chair and pushed his way out of the room.

Going to bed supperless was hard on someone who slept as lightly as he did. He wasn't looking forward to it. He climbed the narrow stairs, considering his options. He had a few things he could sell, like his dagger or Magic's saddle.

He could hire out his sword and defend the caravans traveling from the capital to outlying towns, although it would take him away from the capital for weeks at a time and he wouldn't be able to attend class.

He could go to the Númenorian embassy for money. They'd almost surely give it to him. But after what happened at the Haven, he'd gone into hiding. If he took their money, they'd know where he was.

Magic's saddle should fetch a good price. He'd replace it with something utilitarian and worn, but not too uncomfortable. A hired sword spends long hours in the saddle.

He reached his room and pushed open the door. He spoke the fire-starting charm. Candlelight filled the room. A folded square of paper sat on his bed, sealed with red wax. The address read Tindomul, the Boar's Head Inn, Haradwaith. The handwriting was his mother's.

He sucked in his breath. They'd found him. Here in Haradwaith, on the far side of the desert, when he didn't want to be found. However, a major function of any embassy, after diplomacy, is espionage. They wouldn't have to work very hard to connect Tindomul, who arrived three weeks ago, with Prince Tindomul who'd gone missing last month.

He broke it and unfolded the letter, and immediately recognized his mother's handwriting.

 _You can't imagine what a scare you gave us, disappearing like that. But we know you're safe now, so none of that matters. Don't write to your father just yet. Give him a chance to calm down, and let me handle him._

 _I'm not able to send you any money as your father forbids it. However, it seems that the allowance you've always received is still on the books. I've arranged for it to be diverted to the Embassy at Haradwaith. I've asked Tar-Meneldur, Ambassador to Haradwaith and also my second cousin, to handle the details._

 _I feel like you're here in the room with me, and I can almost hear your voice, saying you're too proud to accept the money. But will you do it for me? If you came by the Embassy every week, I'd know you were safe and wouldn't worry so much._

Er-Mûrazôr pressed the letter to his heart, then folded it and put it away in his saddlebags.

As a member of the royal family, he was entitled to a small allowance for pocket money. He never gave it much thought. Back in Númenor, it covered incidentals like wagering on dice or tipping a servant, but here, it would be enough to live on. He could even afford private lessons if he was careful.

Tomorrow morning, he would present himself at the Númenorian Embassy. It would be awkward. They'd badger him with questions, or press him to give an official statement explaining himself. It would be unpleasant but it wouldn't kill him, and he'd leave with enough money for private lessons.

He was still awake when dawn arrived and the sky began to get light.

He waited until the Embassy was sure to be open, then dressed in the silver-green robes which marked him as high among those who belonged to the Númenorian nobility.

Er-Mûrazôr dragged himself to the building in the Sultan's compound where the embassies of the foreign nations were housed.

The space occupied by the Númenorian embassy was large and ornate, reflecting the status and importance of the island nation. Er-Mûrazôr entered the lobby. Intricately patterned carpets muffled his footsteps. The walls and ceiling were paneled in white marble, and each of the windows was screened by alabaster filigree, translucent white. The darkened space offered no respite from the heat, even this early in the day.

A junior official, apparently tasked with greeting visitors, got to his feet.

"I am Prince Tindomul," and waited for it to sink in. Here before you stands a member of the Royal House of Númenor. "Please tell Ambassador Meneldur I wish to see him."

"I'm afraid the Ambassador is unavailable, but I could take a message. You're welcome to wait." The clerk went back to sorting papers.

Er-Mûrazôr tried again. In the voice he used to command the troops, he said, "Ask again. I believe the Ambassador would want to know I'm here, even if it takes him away from other duties."

The youth scurried off, and Er-Mûrazôr sat down to wait. A small bird landed on the windowsill beyond the alabaster screen and flew away again. He watched a patch of sunlight move from a stylized animal to a pattern of flowers and vines. Finally, an interior door swung open. Er-Mûrazôr stood up, expecting to see cousin Meneldur. In his place was an official Er-Mûrazôr didn't know.

"I am Tar-Ciaran, Ambassador Meneldur's second-in-command," said a middle aged man in high caste robes.

Er-Mûrazôr drew himself to his full height, his face a mask. "I am Tindomul, son of Ciryatan the Shipbuilder."

The official's expression remained blandly pleasant. "Yes, I know who you are. You arrived three weeks ago, and you've been taking classes."

Er-Mûrazôr blinked with surprise. They must have been following him since he arrived.

"I wish to see the Ambassador on a personal matter." Er-Mûrazôr expected to be shown to a private chamber and offered tea and sweets before he revealed the reason for his visit, but the emissary seemed to be waiting for him to speak, right there in the open lobby. So be it.

"I'll be her in the capitol of Haradwaith for the next several months, and I need to arrange a living allowance. The sum I received at the Palace for incidentals will be sufficient."

"You're staying at the Boar's Head Inn? Have them to send us the bill."

"Gold would be better. Two gold coins should cover my immediate needs, if you'd be good enough to issue them before I leave." It was a reasonable request, equivalent to a week's allowance.

The Ambassador's assistant raised an eyebrow. "Gold? We prefer your creditors send the bills to us. That way, the Embassy knows it's paying for room and board. Not dicing or women. Not buying the house a round."

Er-Mûrazôr's jaw dropped. He struggled to control his temper. "I'm a famous mariner and explorer, not some reprobate who embarrassed the family," like cousin Anducal in Pelegir, who was being paid to stay there.

Tar-Ciaran kept his face carefully neutral. "No, of course not,"he said, after far too long a delay.

Er-Mûrazôr curled his hand into a fist, but thought better of it. Punching an emissary was, maybe not wrong, but probably a bad idea. He uncurled his fingers, breathing hard.

"I'd planned to take a private lesson tomorrow. There isn't time for a request to be approved."

The man smiled and patted Er-Mûrazôr's arm. "I don't care what people say about Master Gulon, that old blowhard. I think it's great you've found something to keep yourself busy. Just think, you'll be able to do tricks at the Yule banquet. What fun!"

Er-Mûrazôr thought his head would explode. He plunged out the outer door, shoving it so hard that it struck the wall with a splintering crack. Fragments of alabaster rained to the pavement.

-o-o-o-o-o-

That afternoon, when Er-Mûrazôr inquired at the registrations table about the possibility being extended credit for the next day's private lesson, he learned his name had already been entered on the list and marked "paid in full". He was pleased and furious at the same time.

He arrived early the next day and was admitted to a barrel vaulted chamber. Eight stools surrounded the table, and a throne-like chair sat at the end. Several places were already occupied. Travaran, the young scholar from the caravan was there, and he recognized two other advanced students.

Er-Mûrazôr took an empty place two seats away from Gulon's chair. The door opened and more scholars joined them. Er-Mûrazôr scowled. This had been advertised as a private lesson. He knew there'd be a few other students, but for this price, he hadn't expected a crowd.

Master Gulon swept into the room. "Good afternoon, gentlemen. It's just us, so let's tackle some advanced topics." He draped a white linen cloth over the end of the table. "I'm going to show you a concealment charm. I don't exactly make the object invisible, but I make it much less noticeable. Use this when you want to bury a cache and make the disturbed earth less noticeable."

He brought over a small box the size of a jewelry box. He placed it on the cloth, where it stood out sharply against the pale fabric. Er-Mûrazôr kept his eyes fastened on the little casket. It was plain wood with iron hinges, and dark in color. Gulon spoke the words of a charm in the low measured voice, then stepped away from the table with his hands behind his back. The box was still there.

"Now, I'd like everyone to look at the floor, then look back at the table."

Er-Mûrazôr looked away and looked back. There was nothing on the white cloth. He studied the spot where the box had been. He scanned the whole top of the table, he looked on the floor. It was not there.

Er-Mûrazôr said, "Let's see your hands."

The old magician held his hands away from his body. No box. "It still on the table. It's not invisible, but it's much less noticeable. I'd like to have someone come up, close enough to touch it."

Travaran touched the spot where it had been. "It's not there it's, oh wait! That must be the lid. It's right where it was. Now I see it."

Now that he knew where to look, Er-Mûrazôr could see it, too. He wondered how he'd missed it. It could be a street conjurer's trick, but it might also be real.

Master Gulon stepped back from the table. "Let's see if one of you can do it. Who wants to try?"

Er-Mûrazôr jumped to his feet and elbowed past someone else. The court astrologer told him the words to speak, what intonation to use, and how to hold his hands. Er-Mûrazôr performed the motions to cast the spell, and the box vanished.

It was real magic, but he wasn't sure it was of his own doing. Gulon might have enchanted the box before the lesson.

"Can I try it with a different object?" Er-Mûrazôr unsheathed his dagger and placed it on the cloth. He spoke the words of the spell and looked away, then back. The dagger was gone.

"Can you make a person invisible?" As a general, he might need to send an unseen spy into an enemy commander's tent, or an assassin into a rival's bedchamber.

"On living creatures, it's a hard spell to cast. But yes, it's possible." Gulon scanned the faces around the table. "We have a little more time. What else shall we do today?"

After that, Gulon showed them a spell to see through walls. Er-Mûrazôr paid close attention. If the same spell could help him find the Lodestar through the thick fogs that formed at sea, he'd never be lost again.

Er-Mûrazôr was thrilled. In a single private lesson, he'd learned to do more magic than he had in all the large lectures combined. With the Embassy picking up his tuition, he'd be able to take private lessons all the time. His face creased in an unaccustomed smile.

"Can you show us how to mix a love potion?" asked a middle-aged man with pockmarked features.

Gulon's face, already red, turned crimson. "You may not know this, but love potions are a form of mind control, which is dark magic. Dark magic is illegal and wrong, and I do not teach it."

A chill crept up Er-Mûrazôr's limbs. A good deal of what he wanted to learn was dark magic, magic Gulon didn't or wouldn't teach.

"If I thought that any one of you was interested in dark magic, I would personally seize him by the arms and frog-march him out the door."

Master Gulon must _not_ read his thoughts, or Er-Mûrazôr was finished. He picked a crack in the floor and fixed his thoughts upon it. He envisioned a still, bottomless lake, the impenetrable walls of a fortress, a heavy box lined with lead. If he read the situation correctly, Master Gulon wouldn't teach him how to ignite a cottage or wreck a ship, either.

Gulon started to wind down, and his face softened. "I don't normally tell this story, but when I was a young man, I loved a girl who didn't know I existed. I thought if she were my wife, I'd be the happiest young man alive.

"I mixed a love potion and found a way to add it to her glass. It worked. She returned my affections, and for a while, we spent all our time together. But we were ill-suited for each other, and the flirtation ran its course. I tried to break it off, but the girl followed me everywhere. I began to be afraid of her. In the end, I had to go to the city and pay a famous practitioner to broke the spell for me, but it was humiliating to have to confide in him and reveal my mistake. "

Er-Mûrazôr raised his hand. He dreaded the answer, but he had to know.

"What about a spell to extend one's life?" In all of magic, it was the thing he cared about the most, not just for himself but for his people. Even if Gulon wouldn't teach him to use practical magic for war, life extension justified the entire price of admission.

Gulon looked grave. "Necromancy, magic related to death, is the blackest of all. Most people think it means communicating with the dead, but it also includes trying to predict the date of one's own death, or hastening the death of another. Even life extension spells, which are meant to cheat death, originate from death magic. So while they sound innocent, only someone well-versed in death magic can cast them."

 _Life extension. It's real, but it's based on death magic._ Er-Mûrazôr felt like he'd been sucker-punched.

A student across the room raised his hand. "What about Atelic, the court physician? They say he added years to his life through supernatural means. Certainly, he's very old."

"How did he do it, is it a potion?"

"Is there a spell?"

"Have you learned it from him?" Everyone in the hall seemed to be talking at once.

Gulon paced back and forth. "He may be the royal physician here at court, but he studied under Tar-Mairon who teaches nothing _but_ dark magic. I expect Atelic learned death magic from him in his student days. More likely, his old teacher cast the spell for him. If you know what's good for you, you'll stay away from him."

Tar-Mairon, the sorcerer-warlord his uncle defeated at Tharbad, who'd escaped after the battle. Er-Mûrazôr's uncle had let him go, saying he was too dangerous to try to capture, that soldiers who'd gotten too close to him had gone mad.

The lesson came to an end, and the students filed out into the lecture hall, echoing an empty. The doors at the back of the hall were flung wide, letting the bright afternoon sun into the stone chamber.

The student ahead of him nudged his neighbor. "I heard Atelic's back in town. He occasionally gives private lessons, too."

"That old poisoner? Good luck to him. He'll have to find someone brave enough to be alone in the same room with him."

"Could Atelic really be a poisoner?" asked a third student.

"I doubt it. He's physician to the Sultan's family. Gulon hates him because he dabbles in dark magic."

"Gulon hates him because he's a better magician." They all laughed.

"And he's a good physician, too. They say he won't treat anyone but the royals unless they come in with a really interesting ailment. Complaints that any other healer would call easy money, like loose bowels or the pox, don't interest him."

It was the best possible news. Atelic, a sorcerer who'd studied dark magic including a spell to extend life, gave private lessons, too. Whatever it took, Er-Mûrazôr would find a way to meet him.


	15. Chapter 25 - The Poisoner

**The Poisoner**

Er-Mûrazôr stared into the darkness. Sleep had always been unreliable for him, but tonight looked to be particularly restless.

The small window was a square of gray against deeper shadow. The edge was cut off by an amorphous form, which proved to be his shirt, hung to dry on the rafter beams overhead.

Tomorrow, he would find a way to see Atelic, the court physician. All he had to do was feign an ailment interesting enough that the old sorcerer would agree to see him. If everything went right, he would persuade Atelic to teach him the lift-extension spell.

 _He walked into a high-ceilinged council chamber. Atelic sat behind a long table in his sorcerer's robes. He was flanked by Corwin, the well-mannered emissary, and Hawk Face, the professional bearer of bad news, on the other. At the far end of himthe table, his brother Atanamir bent over a ledger book, entering notes. Almost all of them were in the red column. Er-Mûrazôr turned to leave, but before he reached the doors, they crashed shut in his face._

He started awake, his heart pounding.

The spell was the most valuable thing he could imagine bringing back to Númenor. He envisioned the look of pride on his father's face. Then it hit him like a kick in the gut. Unless he brought something as important as this spell, he probably wouldn't see his father again. Even if he did make it home, his father might not agree to see him.

He gave up trying to sleep before it was fully light. He got up, washed his face, and finger-combed his hair.

He crossed the marketplace, where the merchants were still setting up their stalls. The gates of the Palace compound were just ahead. He'd never been here this early, and the gates were shut. Beyond the ironwork trellis, a servant swept the paving stones with a broom of twigs. A clerk crossed the square and opened the door to one of the public buildings. The doors of several more buildings opened shortly after, and soon, an old grounds keeper came to unlock the ironwork gates and swing them open.

"Where can I find Atelic, the Sultan's physician?" Er-Mûrazôr fingered a copper coin, careful to hold it where the grounds keeper could see it.

"He has rooms in the north tower of the Sultan's Palace. Not one of the public buildings, the Residence itself. Tell the guard I sent you, and he'll let you up."

The Sultan's Palace was an enormous structure with wings embracing a central garden, a rarity in this desert country. The exterior walls were faced in marble, as glossy as the surface of a pearl, and the tips of the spires glinted gold in the morning light.

Er-Mûrazôr reached the base of the north tower. The guard told him to climb as high as the stairs went, and once he was there, to knock on the only door. He climbed the tower stairs with a growing sense of unease. If he were granted the audience he sought, he would spend time alone behind closed doors with a notorious poisoner. Er-Mûrazôr resolved that, even if manners demanded it, he would not accept anything to eat or drink.

At the top of the stairs, a boy of about fourteen stood in front of a low wooden door. His hair was uncombed, and there was a spot on the front of his tunic, as if his mother hadn't checked him before he left the house.

"I'm looking for the court physician. Is he within?"

"Is he expecting you?" The youth made no move to step aside.

"I've come to see him on a medical matter. I have gold, I can pay."

"Master Atelic doesn't take money. If you tell me your symptoms, I'll take him the message."

"It's of a personal nature."

"All medical matters are personal. Why don't you write it down, and I'll give him the note."

The boy dug through the drawer of a small desk and produced a wrinkled sheet of paper, a nib pen, a pot of ink that had completely dried up, and the remains of a stick of lead.

"There, that ought to do," he said triumphantly, holding up the sorry stub of lead like a trophy. He placed it and the paper on the desk, dumped everything else back in the drawer before retreating back, and retreated behind the door.

Er-Mûrazôr picked up the stick of lead and held it over the paper. He did have an interesting case to tell the court physician. He didn't know of anyone else who'd risen from his wedding bed as virgin as he'd lain down. The physician back in Armenelos believed he'd had too much to drink at the banquet beforehand. But he'd stayed away from wine the next night, and the night after that, and it hadn't made any difference.

His hand hovered above the paper. He didn't want to discuss his problem with a stranger. He didn't want to relate the humiliating details, he didn't want to be examined, and he didn't want to be medically interesting. He put the lead stick down and stared at the blank paper.

Ten minutes went by. Footsteps approached and from the inside of the door came the sound of a latch being drawn back. Er-Mûrazôr glanced at the blank paper and scribbled the first thing he could think of that might interest the famous physician.

 _I can see ghosts._

The door swung open, and the boy appeared in the doorway. Er-Mûrazôr folded the paper into quarters and handed it to him. He disappeared inside, and the sound of his footsteps retreated into the distance.

 _Stupid, stupid._ Er-Mûrazôr slapped his forehead. He'd either just admitted he was crazy or had confessed in writing that he practiced necromancy, which was as illegal here as it was in Númenor.

The boy reappeared in the doorway. "Master Atelic will see you now." He showed Er-Mûrazôr into a barrel vaulted chamber, then closed the door and leaned against it.

Er-Mûrazôr looked around. A long table filled up the room, which was otherwise bare.

An old, old man sat in a high backed chair at the end of the room. The light from the window behind him he made a halo of his wispy hair, what little there was of it, and age spots speckled his scalp.

"Jhann, lock the door, please." The boy opened the door, looked left and right, then pulled it shut. He slid the bolt into place, and remained standing against it.

The old poisoner lifted a hand and waved Er-Mûrazôr to the stool beside him. A scrap of paper lay unfolded on the table. Er-Mûrazôr recognized his own handwriting, and the line about ghosts.

The old man was wrapped in a heavy blanket or cloak. Beside him, the fireplace was cold, the ashes left over from long ago. In the grate, a spider was constructing an elaborate web. There were no workbenches against the walls. There was no glassware, no herbs, no mortar and pestle anywhere in the room. His shoulders relaxed. If he had to be alone with the poisoner, he preferred not to share space with the poisons themselves.

Master Atelic regarded him from beneath eyebrows like caterpillars. He looked to the door where the servant stood. "Jhann, go make us some tea, that's a good lad. And bring some cakes, the special ones." He turned back to Er-Mûrazôr.

"Now, what's all this about?" old sorcerer asked.

"I can see ghosts."

"So you said."

Something fingered his thoughts, its butterfly-light touch delicate and sure. He tried to fight it off. He imagined a lead-lined box inside his head, sealed shut by an iron hasp and a heavy padlock, but the probing passed right through it. The torchlight and bright clothing of his wedding banquet flared up in his memory, as vivid as if he were there. Then he heard the city gate closing behind him for the last time, as he stood under that orange red sunset trying not to mind the aching sadness.

"You know, it's a common thing for people to consult me about one thing when they really want to talk about something else. Now, unless I'm very much mistaken, you're the young prince from Númenor who couldn't consummate his marriage."

Er-Mûrazôr's hands balled into fists. He would never live that story down. Never.

Something stirred in his mind, the gentle touch penetrating deeper than before.

He felt a touch behind his ear, and below it, if felt like tree roots reaching into the earth, branching and forking as they probed deeper. It stirred memories, the cold-hearted exhilaration that had come over him in battle, the grief he felt over the loss of the Haven, a fragment of an erotic dream he couldn't quite remember.

His pulse raced, and he clasped his hands to hide the trembling. Shame swept over him, worse than anything he'd felt after his failed wedding night, when his father and the court physicians had interrogated him for hours.

"Well, it was a wasted trip. I know what ails you, and so do you, if you'd admit it."

What utter nonsense. A roaring in his head crested until the edges of his vision went black. Er-Mûrazôr sprang to his feet, knocking back the stool. "This conversation is over."

"Sit down." The withered old man's voice carried surprising authority. Er-Mûrazôr sat.

Er-Mûrazôr glared at the ancient sorcerer. "You know, probing the mind of another is dark magic, and illegal," and a horrible violation of his most private self, which Er-Mûrazôr absolutely hated.

Atelic laughed. A real laugh, his eyes merry. "Dark magic? I studied under Tar-Mairon. He doesn't teach any other kind. Now, about those ghosts you came here to talk about. When do you see them, waking or sleeping?"

"Waking."

"And when do they appear to you?"

"When I summon them."

"You don't run into them by accident?"

"I go into a trance and enter the Underworld. After my uncle died, I went looking for him, but I spoke with several other spirits of the dead while I was searching."

"Did you just tell me you performed necromancy? That's dark magic, and forbidden by law." The old man looked at him sternly.

"So I hear. I only did it once." Er-Mûrazôr started to sweat. He was taking a great risk, confessing to a crime.

"And you were successful on your first try, with no training." The ancient figure leaned forward and peered at him from under eyebrows like snowy caterpillars. "You have a talent beyond the ordinary."

"I'm a general. I want to use dark magic for war. Does that shock you?" asked Er-Mûrazôr.

"Nothing shocks me. And war has always been with us, magical or not."

"Will you teach me the life-extension spell? I can pay in gold." Er-Mûrazôr held his breath, waiting for the answer.

"I don't work for gold, and I only take one student at a time. I believe you've met him. Jhann, the boy who let you in. But don't despair, you can always learn magic from Gulon. He teaches classes to all comers."

"What Gulon teaches isn't real magic, it's just a collection of recipes. He doesn't understand how they work." Er-Mûrazôr spat out the words.

The old man laughed. "That's Gulon, ancient knowledge and venerating the sages." He leaned forward and lowered his voice. "Gulon's magic is real, but it's not complete."

"Excuse me?"

"Master Gulon is a good person. He won't touch dark magic, because it's dangerous and it's used for harm. But avoiding it left a huge gap in his knowledge. He has to use recipes and memorized spells because he doesn't understand how magic works. And he missed the main point. It's not the spell that's light or dark, it's how it's used."

Even kitchen magic could be dark, if you used a fire starting spell to ignite cottages or a rainmaking spell to make a ship founder.

Atelic tented his fingers and leaned back. "Do you think a blessing is white and a curse is dark? Yet they're both done with the same spell, a spell to make a wish. As a physician, I can tell you there's no healer who isn't also a poisoner. It's only a matter of dose. You can't separate white magic from dark, they're the same coin."

Jhann returned with dozen yellow cakes arranged on a pewter plate, each garnished with a twist of lemon. He placed them on the table at Er-Mûrazôr's elbow. Beside the plate, he put a ceramic bowl of tea. Steam rose from its surface, it smelled of berries.

"Excuse me if I don't join you, but please feel free to help yourself."

Jhann stood closer to the table than necessary. His hand inched towards the platter like a cat creeping up on an unsuspecting bird.

"Hands off. They aren't for you," Atelic snapped, and his apprentice jumped back.

Er-Mûrazôr lifted the cup, but before it was halfway to his lips, he set it down to finish speaking. He broke one of the cakes in half, pushing the pieces around the plate and pronouncing it delicious.

Jhann's eyes never left the little cakes. There was a crash outside, and a workman's curses rose from the courtyard below. The old sorcerer twisted around towards the window.

"Do you want any more?" Jhann asked Er-Mûrazôr. Without waiting for an answer, he stuffed two of the pastries in his mouth. The old sorcerer turned around, and Jhann stopped chewing, his face a mask of innocence.

"You do realize you have crumbs down the front of your tunic," said the old man. "Are you going to drink our guest's tea as well?"

"Seriously? Can I have it?" Jhann perked up like a puppy.

"He's like all boys his age, he eats like a bird. Twice his own weight in a day." The sorcerer laughed at his own joke.

"When I was your age, I wanted to learn the whole of magic, not just charms and fire starting and reading the stars, but also the forbidden arts like mind control and throwing curses. I thought if I knew all of it, the light and the dark, I could be a better practitioner of the craft. You have to learn the _whole_ of magic to understand how it works."

"Well, I did learn all of those things. Most of it's forbidden by law here, but I studied in the Black Land, and it wasn't illegal there. I learned that magic is neither light nor dark, it depends on how it's used.

"The Black Land? You really did study under Tar-Mairon?" asked Er-Mûrazôr.

"That I did. They say I went there to learn how to cast a death curse. I've a healer, I wouldn't do that. But the dark arts? Control the mind of another, speaking with the dead? Fascinating!

"And life extension?"

"I was already old when I went to him. Tar-Mairon worked a spell to extend my life."

"I wish Gulon taught dark magic."

"He doesn't. But if that's what you want to do, why don't you study under Tar-Mairon?" asked Atelic.

Er-Mûrazôr snorted. "I'm a member of the Númenorian royal family. Think what he'd do to me if I appeared on his doorstep, alone and unarmed."

Master Atelic stroked his chin. "Because Númenor decimated his army? He is one to nurse a grudge, isn't he? But I don't think you'd be in any danger. If you entered his realm with an armed escort, he'd obliterate you. But if you came alone, as a potential apprentice and seeker of knowledge, the worst he'd do is turn you away."

Er-Mûrazôr looked at him skeptically.

"Sometimes when one nation defeats another, the vanquished start to identify with their conquerors, and to imitate them. They copy the clothing and manners of those who defeated them, and words from the conquers' language slip into their speech. When I was with him, Tar-Mairon was infatuated with all things Númenorian. I don't think you being a Númenorian will put you in danger."

"Why would he take students?" asked Er-Mûrazôr.

"He likes to teach. When I was there, he had half a dozen apprentices. All advanced sorcerers, all very talented."

Er-Mûrazôr's uncle had glimpsed Tar-Mairon during the battle of Tharbad, face concealed behind his helmet, columns of smoke behind him rising to the leaden sky. The thought of the dreaded warlord writing on a chalk board and assigning practice exercises made Er-Mûrazôr laugh, which he tried to disguise as a cough.

"Tar-Mairon isn't Gulon, he doesn't train just anyone who comes along. He has to believe you're going to be a great sorcerer, or it's not worth his time. But there's no harm in asking. The worst that would happen is he'd say 'no' and you'd be escorted to the border."

"Is his fee very high?" asked Er-Mûrazôr.

"He doesn't charge a fee. Why does he do it? All those gifted students, hanging onto his every word? I think he has an excessive need to be admired."

Atelic paused for a long moment. "If you decide to apprentice under him, there's something you should know," said the old man. "You thought Gulon came across as a charlatan, which annoyed you. You'll find Tar-Mairon the same."

"But you said his magic is real."

"His magic is quite real. That's why I don't understand it." The old man looked out the window. "Have you ever met someone who seems a little off? Like they're not who they're pretending to be? Tar-Mairon is like that. He's vague about his past, and what he does say doesn't add up."

The old man looked directly at Er-Mûrazôr. "You should study under Tar-Mairon. His knowledge is astonishing, and he's willing to share it. Just be aware that he's an enormous pain in the ass."


	16. Chapter 26- A Defeated Warlord

**A Defeated Warlord**

The journey from the capital of Haradwaith to Mordor took the better part of a week. Er-Mûrazôr kept the mountains, the Encircling Fence, to his right and kept riding until he came upon the natural opening in the ragged peaks known as Cirith Gorgor, the Pass of Horror.

 _This is an incredibly bad idea, a Númenorian going into Mordor, alone and friendless._

It took several more days to travel through Mordor itself to the gates of Barad-dûr. In all that time, he didn't see another living creature. The wars appeared to have left the Black Land entirely depleted of Orcs. He began to worry less about his own safety and more about reaching the Tower and finding it abandoned.

In spite of the dryness, there was water here, but it was so black and vile, he feared it was poisonous.

Magic yanked the lead line and plunged his muzzle into a toxic-looking stream and drink deeply. The horse suffered no ill effects, so when his water skin ran dry, Er-Mûrazôr cupped his hands under a rivulet dripping from the face of the rock, and held his breath against the taste of iron. He stripped off his shirt and splashed under his arms, which replaced the smell of unwashed body with the smell of rotten eggs.

In the distance, The Dark Tower dominated a high promontory, veiled behind mist and invisible. Occasionally the clouds that hung about it would part, but he never saw more than a tower here, a battlement there. He could tell nothing of its structure, other than it appeared to be of very great size.

Er-Mûrazôr reached the base of the promontory and began to climb up a series of switchback turns. After the first few turns, he dropped from the saddle and led Magic by the reins. He locked his knee on each step, to slow himself down and preserve his strength.

He reached the top of the promontory, and there it was, Barad-dûr. The foundation walls covered more ground than most walled cities, the upper portions were cloaked behind an unnatural-looking haze.

He pulled the silver grey robe from the saddle bag and shook it out the deep wrinkles that made a washboard of the heavy silk, At least it was clean. Hoping he was unobserved, he put Magic between himself and the fortress, stripped off the shirt he bought in Haradwaith, and dropped the robe over his head. He was a Númenorian prince in enemy territory, it was fitting he look the part.

He finger-combed his hair, and checked to see that nothing unpleasant was clinging to his boots.

He approached the Gate, more than three stories tall, shiny black and so smooth it looked wet. It felt like glass beneath his fingers. His heart hammered in his ears. He he'd only heard it once before, on that day long ago, when the older boys relented and took him cliff-jumping.

 _The rock was warm in the afternoon sun. His toes hugged it as if clinging for dear life. Forty feet below, a wave broke and surged into the natural cauldron, filling it with swirling seawater, the boiling foam spilling over its rim. Then the tide pulled away, leaving the basin knee-deep and lined with boulders._

 _"_ _Come on, Er-Mûrazôr. We've all done it, now it's your turn."_

 _Artanamir's hair was plastered to his forehead. His brother's friends were also soaking wet, and unharmed._

 _"_ _Shall I push him?" asked one of his brother's friends._

 _"_ _It wouldn't be an act of courage then, would it? You have to do it yourself." said Artanamir._

 _Er-Mûrazôr was ten years old. He didn't want to die. The next wave came rushing into the cauldron, surf shooting high up on the far side. In a moment, the water would be at its highest. Aim for the spot in the center. Do it._

He knocked.

For a long time, nothing happened. He was about to turn away when the cover over the spyhole slid back.

"What do you want?" said whoever was behind the black eyes peering through the slit.

"I've come to see Tar-Mairon. I want to study sorcery under him," Er-Mûrazôr said.

The cover slid back into place, and after some rattling, the sally door swung outward. The lower edge was at least a foot above the ground. Er-Mûrazôr looped Magic's reins around a stone, then bent over double to squeeze through the small opening.

He unfolded himself on the other side. He found himself in an enclosed space between the gatehouse towers, where stone walls threatened to squeeze him beneath an arched ceiling, pierced with murder holes from which to drop things on invaders. Huge iron gates, identical in size to the outer gates, barred exit from the end of the space.

The watchman bolted the sally door behind him. Magic whinnied and stomped a hoof.

The old man appeared to have escaped the wars through age or infirmity, or both. His few wisps of hair were snow white, and he was missing important parts, like an arm.

"Are you armed?" asked the watchman.

"I wear a sword. It's a badge of rank." He also had a dagger, and a penknife.

Er-Mûrazôr expected the watchman to take his weapons, but instead, the old man just nodded, and led him through a passage in the base of one of the watchtowers.

Beyond it was a wide expanse of courtyard between the curtain wall and the base of a massive tower. A space like this would normally be filled with rickety wooden structures like stables, barracks, or smithies. This fortress looked as if it had just been finished and no one had moved in yet.

He followed the watchman into a tunnel through the base of the tower. Inside, floor tiles had been partially laid, murals were half painted, and wooden paneling leaned against the wall, waiting to be installed, their upper edges furry with dust.

In all the corridors they walked down, Er-Mûrazôr didn't see another soul. They stopped in front of a door. The watchman knocked, pushed it open, and motioned him inside.

The door opened onto a barrel-vaulted chamber with whitewashed walls, longer than it was wide. A slice of a window at the far end of the room admitted the afternoon sun. The center of the room held a long line of work benches covered with apparatus he didn't recognize. The air smelled metallic, and slightly of chalk.

Three young men looked up at him. The eldest, or at least the largest and most confident-looking, regarded him through lidded eyes. He was dressed in the bright cottons of Haradwaith and had copper-colored skin.

"Tar-Mairon?" Er-Mûrazôr asked.

"No, I am Ferran, Tar-Mairon's senior apprentice. This is Raedwald," he waved a hand in the direction of the slender youth against the wall, who wore the leathers and furs of the far North, "and this is Eamur," he said, jerking his head in the direction of a solid looking farm boy with wheat blond hair, who nodded and smiled a greeting.

"Tar-Mairon has three apprentices?" asked Er-Mûrazôr.

"Tar-Mairon has ten apprentices. Fifteen, if you count those who came here to learn smithing. They're mostly Dwarves, although one is a Noldor Elf. To answer your question, Tar-Mairon doesn't limit the number of students, but he only takes those who are already expert," said Ferran.

Exactly what Atelic had told him. Er-Mûrazôr wanted to be an expert, but he wasn't one yet.

"We'll put you through a few tests, nothing unpleasant, just enough to evaluate your skills and knowledge. If we feel you're qualified, we'll report to Tar-Mairon, and he'll decide if he wants to grant you an audience."

Er-Mûrazôr's heart sank. He had a little training at the beginner level. And it wasn't years of study, he'd only been attending Gulon's lectures for three weeks.

"This is the first test, a concealment charm," said the chief apprentice. He placed a small stone on the workbench.

Er-Mûrazôr spoke the words of the charm, and watched the stone take on the texture of the wood behind it. While not invisible, it had become almost unnoticeable. He allowed himself a moment of satisfaction.

Next, Ferran placed a wooden box in front of him. "Tell me what's inside. You don't have to name the object, just describe its general size and weight."

Er-Mûrazôr tried to form an image whatever was on the far side of the wood. It was similar to looking through walls, but it required a tighter range and focus. He thought he could just make out something slender with sharp edges.

"A dagger?" he asked.

Ferran opened the box. It held a writing pen.

"For the next test, form a thought and transmit it to me. Make it something simple, like a number or the name of an animal." Er-Mûrazôr thought of a horse, and looked directly at Ferran while holding the image in his thoughts.

"I'm not getting anything. Unless, was it the number twelve?" Ferran's brow wrinkled in concentration. They tried several more times, but Er-Mûrazôr was never able to transmit a word or an image to the senior apprentice.

The tests increased in difficulty. Er-Mûrazôr was unable to move a small object, read the thoughts of another, or summon the wind.

Ferran leaned back against the workbench. "All right, I think we're done. You do know a little magic, but unfortunately, Tar-Mairon only takes apprentices who are already expert sorcerers, and you can barely even be called a beginner. Watchman, please show our guest to the gates."

The watchman escorted him out and closed the sally port behind him. The spyhole remained shut.

Er-Mûrazôr stood before the gates of Barad-dûr, frustrated and angry. He'd traveled a long way to be here. Ever since he'd left Umbar, his heart had been set on becoming a sorcerer.

Er-Mûrazôr pounded on the sally port. "I've come this far. I just want to meet Tar-Mairon. I ask for ten minutes of his time, and then I'll go."

"Why should he see you?" asked the watchman.

Flattery usually works on anyone, and Tar-Mairon was said to be particularly vain. "They say Tar-Mairon is the greatest sorcerer living. I want to meet him."

"You and a lot of others."

Er-Mûrazôr took out a coin, the last one he had, and walked it across the back of his hand. Index to second, second to third, and back again, an impressive feat of dexterity.

"Tell you what. Write a note explaining why you want to see him, and I'll carry it up."

Er-Mûrazôr gave him the coin, and the man came back with paper and a writing box. Er-Mûrazôr balanced the box on a flat stone and dipped the copper nib into the inkwell. He stared into space, thinking about what he wanted to say.

 _My life is shattered. I'm starting over and I want to be a sorcerer._

No, that sounded stupid. He tore the paper in half and crumpled what he'd just written, and tried again, but what came out was another version of the same. None of those were going to work.

He dipped the pen and began again.

 _Since your defeat at Tharbad, you've been holed up behind your own walls, with nothing to do. Give me an audience, if for no other reason than that meeting me would break up an otherwise dull afternoon._

He folded the paper and handed it to the watchman, who disappeared inside with it. The sally port door closed. He thought about how his message would be received.

"Wait! Don't deliver that!" There was no answer.

He should just leave. Take Magic's reins and disappear over the lip of the plateau. One bend of the hairpin path, and he would be out of sight, and away. But before he could act, the sally port opened.

"Tar-Mairon will meet with you now," said the watchman.

Er-Mûrazôr tried to swallow, but his mouth was too dry. He followed the watchmen back into the chamber where he'd met Tar-Mairon's apprentices an hour earlier.

The apprentices were still there. Ferran was sitting on the corner of a workbench, one foot on the floor and the other swinging back and forth. Raedwald was slouching against a wall, looking amused. Eamur smiled a greeting.

The door opened, and all three apprentices leapt to their feet.

A man at least as tall as Er-Mûrazôr swept into the room. His robes brushed the floor, and he carried a goblet in one hand. His features were severe and unsmiling.

In appearance, the man fell somewhere between Númenorian and Elvish. He could have passed for either. He had the height of a Númenorian, and was broad-shouldered and muscular in build. Reddish-brown hair fell to his shoulders in the Númenorian style, but his features were perfectly symmetrical, and he had no beard.

The apprentices bowed their heads. Tar-Mairon acknowledged them with a nod, and turned to Er-Mûrazôr. "You must be the persistent one." He sounded bored.

Er-Mûrazôr sensed that he was expected to bow, but a Prince of Númenor outranks a defeated warlord. He drew himself up to his full height and held the sorcerer's eye.

Tar-Mairon drew uncomfortably close and sniffed the air. "You smell like compost."

Er-Mûrazôr ground his teeth. So much for making a good first impression.

The cut of Tar-Mairon garments was almost identical to Er-Mûrazôr's silver-green robes, but instead of silk, they'd been made from homespun linen, and the colors were the muted pastels of homemade vegetable dyes. He looked like someone in a village play about Númenor, who'd made his costume himself.

"Why are you here?" the defeated warlord asked him, although he must already know.

"I want to study sorcery. I think I have a knack for it."

Something brushed against the surface of his mind, probing, seeking a way in. Annoyed, Er-Mûrazôr summoned an image from a sweltering day on the docks when he almost tumbled into a pile of fish guts. Beneath a cloud of buzzing flies, white maggots squirmed in the putrefying flesh, hundreds of them, wriggling blindly and making a humming sound. The smell was indescribable.

The probing touch yanked away. Er-Mûrazôr looked at the wall. _Serves you right._

Ferran swept an arm over the apparatus. "We put him through the tests. He has no real training."

"Show me what you can do," said Tar-Mairon.

Er-Mûrazôr walked over to the hearth, cold in the middle of summer. The remains of a fire lay in the grate, charcoal and the ends of burned logs. He rehearsed the spell in his mind first, and spoke the words. Yellow flames sprang from the charred end of the log.

The apprentices looked unimpressed. "It's real magic, but anyone could do it with a little instruction," said Eamur, the plump farm boy.

Tar-Mairon turned to leave.

"Wait, I can do one other thing." Er-Mûrazôr's voice sounded high, and he realized he was pleading.

It was a huge risk. It was the most difficult magic he knew how to do, and because it was illegal, he'd only tried it once before. He closed his eyes and leaned against the workbench, bracing his palms against the edge. He closed his eyes and breathed in slowly, letting himself sink into a trance.

The the barrel-vaulted classroom around him seemed fade, and for the second time in his life, he found himself in the halls of Mandos. The grey-green shades of souls pressed all around him, calling to him with thin voices, grasping at his sleeve with their pale fingers.

He was looking for his uncle. Last time, it had been easy. His uncle had been waiting for him, had been willing to speak to him. One corridor of the underworld looked like any other. He was lost, and he didn't see anyone he knew.

He started to panic. He grabbed the next person he saw, a drowned woman with wet hair clutching a baby in her arms.

"Where is Tar-Ciryatur? I'm looking for the Admiral, the hero of Tharbad."

Her eyes widened and fear. She answered him in a language he'd never heard before, it syllables ancient-sounding and guttural, and struggled free from his grasp, squeezing her baby tighter.

The shades around them pulled back, like fish when a pond is disturbed. He reached for another specter, but it dissolved at his touch. He wasn't able to speak with any of them, wasn't able to learn where to find his uncle. Reluctantly, he allowed himself to come out of the trance. The probing touch he'd felt earlier brushed against his mind as it withdrew.

Er-Mûrazôr blinked and looked around the classroom. The floor seemed to heave like the deck of a ship, and the lights were far too bright. The apprentices regarded him sarcastically.

"Now, that was a street conjurer's trick if I ever saw one. The pretend trance, the fake ancient language? I mean, really," said Ferran. The other apprentices nodded.

Er-Mûrazôr cringed. Disappointment washed over him.

Tar-Mairon stood, slack-jawed. The goblet slipped from his fingers and struck the floor, then rolled away.

"No, that was real."


	17. Epilogue - Mairon's Apprentice

**Mairon's Apprentice**

Er-Mûrazôr stood in the barrel-vaulted room where he'd taken the entrance exams two weeks before. About a dozen apprentices crammed into the back of the room, sitting on the edge of workbenches or leaning against the wall.

The three senior apprentices, Ferran, Raedwald, and Eamur, were familiar from the entrance exams the day before. His roommate, Sevv. Six more he didn't know. All were from the race of Men, but they seem to come from every nation in Arda, based on the wide variety in the style of their clothing. This would be his first real lesson in sorcery, hands-on and advanced.

The door opened, and Tar-Mairon swept in. He was wearing the same clothing as the day before, and he carried a sheath of notes.

"Today we're going to learn how to communicate using just our minds."

"Sevv here communicates _without_ his mind being actively involved," said Eamur.

"That I can't fix. I only teach telepathy," said Tar-Mairon.

The master sorcerer walked to the chalk board and wrote something in the symbols used by all magicians. Er-Mûrazôr didn't have them memorized yet. His eye moved back and forth between the chalkboard and a cram sheet in his hand.

His uncle used to tell stories about getting a glimpse of Tar-Mairon across the battlefield, huge and terrible, a mace in his hand, his face concealed under his helmet. The Elves called him a demon. Not "demon" as in a ferocious warlord, but a literal demon like a Balrog.

Watching the dreaded warlord writing on the chalkboard and assigning practice exercises made Er-Mûrazôr snort with laughter, which he hid under a cough.

"Tomorrow I'll teach you how to throw curses," said Tar-Mairon.

"I would, but I don't want my mouth washed out with soap," said Sevv. Someone else sniggered.

Tar-Mairon ignored them. "We'll begin with theory. It isn't something you should attempt when you don't know what you're doing."

"Instead of curses, could we do shape-shifting?" asked Raedwald.

"Shape-shifting can't be taught. It's an inborn talent," said Tar-Mairon.

"But you can do it, right? They say you can turn into a wolf. Can you show us?"

"Not right now, it takes preparation."

Er-Mûrazôr felt disillusioned. Atelic had warned him Tar-Mairon had a casual relationship with the truth, and was given to overestimating his own abilities.

Tar-Mairon tapped a pen against a book and looked at the ceiling. "Tell you what. Tomorrow morning, instead of meeting here, let's assemble in the great hall by the platform where High Table used to be. I can't teach shape shifting, but I can demonstrate it."

That night in the dining hall, crowded around the table with the other students, Er-Mûrazôr lifted his goblet and regarded its contents. The water was an unnatural color, and it smelled poisonous.

At the Haven, there were no grapes for wine. He'd grown accustomed to drinking ale, which was normally only for peasants. In his three years as Captain of the Haven, he'd actually learn to like the bitter draft. Here, the grain, harvest had been disappointing both this fall and last. They couldn't spare the barley for ale, so everyone in the fortress drink water, regardless of rank.

The water here had an unnatural color and was slimy to the touch. He didn't even like to wash in it. He longed for a taste of clean water, and even more in this land of volcanic fumes, for a breath of the clean-smelling air of the sea.

He brought the goblet to his lips, then held his breath and swallowed.

A servant set hunks of bread and a moldy piece of cheese in the middle of the table. Another set a bowl of broth before him. The steam smelled like parsnips.

He left the cheese to the others, who didn't seem to mind the mold, and reached for a end of a loaf. It was as hard as stone. He sawed at it with a dagger, but only left scratches in the crust.

Sevv laid a hand on his arm. "There's a trick to it. When the loaf is hard like that, don't even try to cut it. The blade will slip and you'll cut yourself, or you'll manage to hack off a slice but break your teeth on it. Soak it in broth first. It'll be soft enough to eat in no time."

Er-Mûrazôr did as he said. Soft bits of bread detached themselves and floated around the broth.

It occurred to him that he'd tasted something like this before. Once, when he and Atanamir were children, they were trapped at the end of High Table, at a feast that showed no signs of ending. Atanamir looked sideways at Er-Mûrazôr and stirred gravy into his wine cup.

"I dare you to drink that," said Er-Mûrazôr.

Atanamir brought the cup to his lips and drank. Which was bad, because now Er-Mûrazôr had to taste it, too. Atanamir slid the goblet over to him. The mixture was dark gray, gelatinous, and kind of chunky. It felt slimy in his mouth, and tasted like salt.

"It's not quite as bad as you'd think," said Er-Mûrazôr, scrubbing his mouth with a napkin.

The next morning, Er-Mûrazôr arrived in the great hall early. The long, vaulted-ceilinged room was rarely used, as so few people lived in the fortress. Ever since he arrived, he'd been taking his meals with the other apprentices in the kitchens.

The great hall was laid out like the great hall in any fortress, except it was considerably larger. A vast expanse of flagstones, which would normally hold row after row of trestle tables, reached out to an empty platform at the far end of the room. Presumably, it had once held the high table. Now, it made an excellent stage. Most of his classmates were already there.

"It looks like word got out. The blacksmithing apprentices are here too," said Sevv. Several dwarves, an elf, and a young man he didn't recognize gathered around the edges of the group.

A door in the wall opened, and Tar-Mairon stepped onto the stage. He was wrapped in a blanket which he held closed with one hand. His legs were bare beneath the brown wool.

He crossed the stage on bare feet. The blanket flapped around him as he walked, and for a moment, the gap revealed bare skin from knee to rib. Er-Mûrazôr looked away, embarrassed. _However long I live, I will never be able to un-see that._

Tar-Mairon shrugged the blanket off his shoulders and held it in front of himself casually, as if he didn't realize he was naked.

He was as scarred as any warrior. A long, white line crossed his shoulder, and there was another on his upper arm and a stab wound on his belly, but the worst was a raised scar that showed where his throat had been slit.

Er-Mûrazôr looked at the floor, his face burning. He didn't know where to look. In the end, he fixed his eyes on his teacher's face.

Tar-Mairon addressed his apprentices. "The first thing to know about shape shifting is that you have to do it naked. If you shift to something large, your clothes will shred. I personally don't have the money to replace my wardrobe every time I do this. But you already knew that, since I pay you in seashells and small rocks."

"You get paid? Bastard!" A student punched his neighbor in the arm.

The master sorcerer lowered his head like an actor getting into character, and rolled forward until his knuckles almost touched the stage. His shoulders broadened, his arms thickened, and his body was covered in dark brown fur, grizzled silver. He growled, a low rumbling threat Er-Mûrazôr felt in his gut.

The wolf became a serpent, impossibly long, its middle as thick as a man's waist. The serpent took the form of a fanged creature with leathery wings. The monster became a wolf again, which became a man on all fours, wearing only his skin. Tar-Mairon sat back on his heels and pushed his hair out of his face, leaving his other arm draped across his lap.

"Toss me that, will you?" he said, pointing to the blanket. He caught it with one hand and held it in front of himself when he stood up.

"That's the problem with shape shifting. Everyone thinks clothes turn into fur. They don't."

-o-o-o-o-o-

Er-Mûrazôr stood in class with the others. To fit in, he'd begun to wear the same homespun clothing they did, grays and browns with a little bit of color in the trim. His tunic was loose and coarse-textured, and completely drab. He felt ridiculous. Númenorian peasants dressed better than this. He was happy about being here. He didn't regret his decision. But even though, as a general who'd been in the field and was used to sleeping rough, he'd never felt this poor before. Yet he didn't mind. It wasn't the poverty of a peasant, it was the poverty of a student, a priest, a wanderer who'd taken holy vows. He was here because he wanted to be.

That evening, Er-Mûrazôr sat around the table with a group of Tar-Mairon's apprentices after they'd finished work for the day. The remains of the evening meal had been pushed aside to make room for a game of dice.

Ferran, Raedwald, Eamur were all there. So were at least four of the junior apprentices, one or two of the smiths, and a few foot soldiers.

Ferran scooped up the dice and set them aside. "Let's make this more interesting. We'll play a drinking game. Never have I ever … "

"Paid back the money you owe me," said Raedwald. Everyone laughed.

"Never have I ever… seen an Orc," said Raedwald. Everyone except Tar-Mairon lifted his glass.

"That will change," said Tar-Mairon.

"Never have I ever … lain with a girl," said a young apprentice, barely old enough to shave. Color spread upward from his jaw. Er-Mûrazôr felt his own face burning. He knocked a coin to the floor on purpose and made a fuss about picking it up, leaving his goblet untouched.

"Never have I ever … told my mother I loved her," said one of the foot soldiers. Two others lifted their goblets and drank.

"Never have I ever… had a stupid argument with my father and had to leave home because I wouldn't apologize." Eamur looked right at Er-Mûrazôr, his eyes teasing. Per the rules of the game, Er-Mûrazôr picked up his glass and drank. He wasn't the only one.

Many rounds later, when Er-Mûrazôr reached for his goblet, or to be exact, for the space between two goblets, his knuckles grazed something metallic and he heard a clunk.

When it was his turn, Er-Mûrazôr said, "Never have I ever … seen the coast of Valinor."

Tar-Mairon lifted his glass.

 _Liar._ It was almost certain Tar-Mairon had never been to Valinor. He claimed to have studied under Aulë the Smith, but when it was discovered that no one there knew him, the Jewel Smiths kicked him out of the guild.

Er-Mûrazôr met his teacher's eye and held it. "You know what? You're full of shit."

" _What did you say?_ " The goblet froze halfway to his lips.

I don't care who you studied under or where you used to live. I just don't like being lied to."

Tar-Mairon slammed his goblet down on the table. Wine slopped over the rim and puddled on the table.

"Calm down, I'm on your side." Er-Mûrazôr laid a hand on bis teacher's arm. The muscles beneath the linen sleeve were rigid.

Er-Mûrazôr leaned closer and lowered his voice. "For someone who walks around in his skin with no more concern than a beast in the field, you're the most inhibited person I know. It's like you're an actor playing a role. Everything that comes out of your mouth sounds rehearsed. I'd rather deal with you, the real you, than with some script." Er-Mûrazôr realized he was slurring his words.

Mairon looked at him. For the first time since they'd met, the expression on his face reached his eyes. It was like watching actors rehearse a play, when they take a break, and you catch a glimpse of the person behind the role.

Mairon studied his hands. "I tried that once. It ended badly. When I lived among the Jewel Smiths, I confided something I swore I'd never reveal to anyone.[1]

"What something?" Er-Mûrazôr asked.

"Let's just say I had to choose between going to prison, or changing my name and devoting my life to anonymous good works."

A guardsman burst into the room. "I heard shouting. Is anything wrong?"

Mairon waved him off. "Eönwë and I were just talking. I mean Er-Mûrazôr. Melkor's chains, I'm drunk."

* * *

[1] That he used to be known as Sauron Gorthaur, Melkor's second-in-command


End file.
